There was a long silence.
At length—
“I—I thought you were twisting my tail,” said Ivan Pomeroy.
“I know. I—I wasn’t. A girl never twists the tail of a man she respects.”
Pomeroy stepped forward and picked up my lady’s hand.
“I don’t take your view,” he said steadily, “about the Will. The implied condition was blunter and much more precise. You can’t make ‘enjoyment’ a condition—that’s merely a matter of hope. But you can make—wedlock.” The hand began to tremble, and Belinda lifted its fellow and covered her eyes. “Let’s do as you did, dear, and turn it round. If old Drawbridge had known of our bust-up, d’you think he’d ’ve left us this place?”
The girl hesitated. Then—
“He—he might have, Ivan . . . just as—a matter of hope.”
Ivan fell on his knees and drew her hand from her face.
This was all rosy.