Cassy's eyelids had been a trifle tremulous, in her under-lip there had been also a little uncertainty. But at the vistas which the novelist dangled at her, she succeeded in looking, as she could look, immeasurably remote.
"That sort of thing is chorus-girl!"
Blankly Jones stared. "What sort of thing?"
"Why, you want me to bring an action. I will do nothing of the kind. Even if he were living, I would rather be dead. Besides, it was all my fault. I ought to have known better."
"Better than what?" enquired the novelist, who now had got his bearings.
"Mr. Jones, I told you all about it."
"Forgive me, if I seem to contradict you. You did not tell all."
Cassy stiffened.
"How could you?" Jones continued. "Details are so tiresome. To-day when I was talking to Dunwoodie, I advanced a few. Dunwoodie is a very ordinary person. Details bore you, they bore me. He dotes on them. By the way, you said something about changing your name. I wish you would. Couldn't you take mine?"
"You are ridiculous."