“Please take off that terrible veil,” he begged.
“It is pinned on to my hat,” she told him.
“Then off with both,” he insisted. “You can't eat luncheon like that. I'm not going to try and bully you. If you've booked your passage to Timbuctoo and you really want to go—why, you must. I only want the chance of letting you know that I am coming after you.”
She took off her hat and veil and threw them on to the sofa, glancing sideways at a mirror let into the door of a cabinet.
“My hair is awful,” she declared:
He laughed gaily, and turned around from the sideboard, where he was busy mixing cocktails.
“Thank heavens for that touch of humanity!” he exclaimed. “A woman who can bother about her hair when she takes her hat off, is never past praying for. Please drink this.”
She obeyed. He took the empty glass away from her. Then he came over to the hearthrug by her side.
“Do you know that I kissed you last night?” he reminded her.
“I do,” she answered. “That is why I have just paid eighty-four pounds for a passage to Buenos Ayres.”