“I am lucky in one way,” he admitted. “In others I am not so sure.”
She kept her head turned from him. Somehow or other, she divined quite well what was in his mind. She tried to think of something to say, something to dispel the seriousness which she felt to be in the atmosphere, but words failed her. It was he who broke the silence.
“May I ask you a question, Miss Conyers?”
“A question? Why not?”
“Are you really engaged to Major Thomson?”
She did not answer him at once. She still kept her eyes resolutely turned away from his. When at last she spoke, her voice was scarcely raised above a whisper.
“Certainly I am,” she assented.
He leaned a little closer towards her. His voice sounded to her very deep and firm. It was the voice of a man immensely in earnest.
“I am going to be an awful rotter,” he said. “I suppose I ought to take your answer to my question as final. I won’t that’s all. He came along first but that isn’t everything. It’s a fair fight between him and me. He hates me and takes no pains to hide it. He hates me because I care for you—you know that. I couldn’t keep it to myself even if I would.”
She drew a little away but he forced her to look at him. There was something else besides appeal in her eyes.