“Supposing,” said Nicholas John, “I had been a bachelor. You naturally thought I was, because there are still men left who travel with their wives. I happen to have a good reason for not being one of them. Next time I go abroad I hope my wife will be with me. But that’s by the way. Supposing I had been a bachelor and, as such, eligible—to pull you out of your slough. And supposing I’d decided that I loved you and had asked you to be my wife. . . . And supposing you’d thought it good enough. . . . D’you mean to say you’ld ’ve actually turned me down?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Susan.
“Why?”
“They call it,” said Susan, “ ‘self-respect.’ You might have sworn that you loved me, but I should have been terrified that it was only Noblesse oblige.”
“Surely a woman can distinguish pity from love?”
“A wife could, because she’ld be in a position to apply all sorts of tests. But that’s not very much good. I mean, it’s a bit late . . .”
Kilmuir took out a cigarette.
“Three days ago,” he said slowly, “you told me I meant what I said.” Susan started. “That what I said rang true. Yet I might have sworn that I——”
“I know,” said the girl desperately. “But the terror of making a mistake. . . .”
“Aren’t you digging too deep?” said Nicholas. “If somebody offers me a drink and I feel thirsty, I jolly well take it. So long as it’s honest liquor, I don’t bother about their motives. If I assume anything, I assume that they wouldn’t ask me if they didn’t want me to have it.”