“No idea,” he answered. “I haven’t been asked, for one thing.”
“Ruth will ask you, of course,” the Marchioness said impatiently. “I expect that she is waiting at your flat by now. I want to know whether you are going to do it.”
The hand was again very close to his. Again Wingrave contemplated the rings.
“I forgot that you were her friend, and are naturally anxious,” he remarked.
“I am not her friend,” the Marchioness answered, “and—I do not wish you to help them.”
Wingrave was silent. The hand was insistent, and he held it for a moment lightly, and then let it go.
“Well, I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “The Barringtons have been very hospitable to me.”
“Rubbish!” the Marchioness answered. “You have done quite enough for them already. Of course, you are a man—and you must choose. I am sure that you understand me.”
He rose to his feet.
“I must think this out,” he said. “The Barringtons have a sort of claim on me. I will let you know which way I decide.”