“Can you see me?” said Nicholas John. “Do we look as if we should get on? I tell you I can’t—er—chatter. I’ld like to tell you what beautiful arms you’ve got, but I can’t put it into words.”
“Hush,” said Susan. “You mustn’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
Steadily grey eyes met brown.
“Because they ring true. I know now that you think I have beautiful arms. I haven’t, but that’s beside the point. I know you think I have. If anyone else said so, I should know they were telling the tale. But you—you mean what you say.”
“I hope so. But that’s no reason. Why shouldn’t I——”
“I don’t know. It’s difficult to say. Somehow it’s—it’s dangerous ground. You see, to-day a man can say anything—at least, they do. I hate it, but it’s the fashion . . . anything. But there’s always a button on the foil. They don’t mean a word of it. If they did . . . Well, I should take the veil. But they don’t. And that’s the saving clause in an odious document. But you’re different. You mean what you say. Your foil hasn’t got any button. And so—it’s dangerous.”
Kilmuir digested this, frowning.
“In a word,” he said, “I mustn’t make personal remarks?”
“That’s right,” said Susan. With a sudden, childish gesture she touched his arm. “You don’t mind my telling you?” she said.