“You mustn’t turn my head, please,” she begged.
“Then I must leave off talking,” he replied, “for you are fast turning mine. Shall I read to you?”
“De Musset, please. The little volume of later poems. I kept them for you.”
He read for half an hour, sympathetically and well. When he laid down the volume her eyes thanked him.
“You are missing Ascot,” she remarked, as he made preparations for departure.
He nodded. “Between ourselves,” he confided, “I owe my bookmaker just a little beyond the limit of the amount with which I care to allow him to credit me. I haven’t a horse running, as you know, or in training. It seems to me I shall have to get through the summer on golf and tennis. I am going to try and keep the hounds, although of course it will be the last season.”
“Poor dear!” she murmured. “And poor idiot too! You know I have money, Bertram—a great deal more than I need. I don’t spend half of it, and Ralph says there is more to come to me. Why mayn’t I help?”
He bent down and kissed her tenderly.
“My dear,” he said, “if ever the day comes when I can call myself your husband, I may accept your bounty. Until then—well, we won’t talk of such matters.”
A delicate little wrinkle of dissatisfaction furrowed her brows. She shook her head at him.