‘Yes. Does it sound dreadful?’ Poor Susan grows very red. ‘It’—nervously—‘didn’t sound a bit dreadful when I did it. And’—desperately—‘I did, any way.’
‘It wasn’t a bit dreadful,’ says Carew good-naturedly.
‘Not a bit. Go on, Susan.’ Dom regards her with large encouragement. ‘Did you ask him any more questions? Did you ask him if he would like to marry you? There wouldn’t be a bit of harm in that, either, and——’
‘Dominick!’ says Susan in an outraged tone.
Here Betty promptly catches his ear, and, pulling him down beside her, begins to pommel him within an inch of his life.
‘Never mind him, Susan. He’s got no brains. They were left out when he was born. Tell us more about your luncheon-party.’
‘There is so little to tell,’ says Susan in a subdued voice. Her pretty colour has died away, and she is looking very pale.
‘What about the poet?’
‘Oh, the poet! His name is Jones, of all the names in the world!’
Here she revives a little, and at certain recollections of the illustrious Jones, in spite of herself, her smiles break forth again. ‘He——’ She bursts out laughing. ‘It sounds horribly conceited, but I really think he believes he is in love with me. Such nonsense, isn’t it?’