“What did he say?”
“He said it wouldn’t be a desert island long, especially if I went in for goatskin shorts.”
“My very words,” said Kilmuir steadily.
There was a long silence.
Susan was beaten and she knew it.
Hastily she shuffled her cards. These were frightening.
Without thinking, she had told him her story, because she valued his esteem. She valued his esteem, because she loved him. She had told him her plight and, without thinking, she had told him its remedy—marriage. She had actually rammed it home—without thinking. Suddenly she had realized. . . .
Horrified at what she had done, she had striven frenziedly to undo it . . . somehow—anyhow . . . no matter at what cost. And he had watched her efforts and feinted and knocked them out.
There was nothing for it: she must begin again.
“I shall pinch you in a minute,” she said. “I tell you, the reaction has set in. The muzzy feeling is passing and I’m beginning to feel ready for anything. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”