“Thank you, Toby,” she said, “I knew I could bank on you. I put my value in your hands, and you’ve given it back. And I think you’re perfectly right. It’s a stupid game. And—and I’m very glad it’s over.”
Rage put her hand to his lips and turned away.
Her words were equivocal. There was a chance that she meant. . . . But the chance that she meant nothing must turn the scale.
“And—er—Toby.”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I made up Alfred.”
“Yes, I thought you did,” said Toby.
“Why?”
“Because the man isn’t foaled who after an hour of your sweetness could refuse you anything. Besides, unless he was mentally deranged, once having got so far, no man on earth would ever have let you go.”
“Perhaps—perhaps that’s why he did,” said Cicely.