"Just why?"
"Why? Why, because of the discretion, the magnanimity, in fact the utter damn-fool quixotism of my late conduct! At Longmeadow, you know. Leaving you—when I might have stayed!"
Joan was rather startled. She had not expected him to carry the war into the enemy's country to such an extent as this.
"That makes twice," he murmured, leaning over her, "that I've let you go unscathed, my dear. When you left school—and when you came back to me. But—Fate is too strong for us. You're not expecting me, I hope, to let you go a third time?"
"In just about five minutes," she smiled, glancing at her wristwatch. "I've ordered my taxi for ten o'clock."
He gave a little exclamation, and caught her hand. "Don't pretend to be so cool and indifferent, you witch! I know you better than that. You—cool and indifferent! Have I forgotten that night under the beech-tree? Have you?"
Joan suddenly blazed out at him, white with anger. "No! I've not forgotten that. Nor afterwards."
"Afterwards?"
"Will you be good enough to tell me in plain language what was your idea in running away?"
He eyed her appreciatively. He liked a touch of temper in a woman. It gave them a zest your amiable creatures lack.