Toby's face was burning. "It—it's she that doesn't like me," she said.
"Oh, that's a mistake," said Bunny, decidedly. "Everyone likes you."
She shook her head. "She doesn't. She thinks I'm bad form, and I daresay she's right. She also thinks—" she lifted her face suddenly, challenging him—"she also thinks that I set out to catch you—and succeeded."
"She doesn't!" declared Bunny. "That's rot—damn' rot! You are not to say it. She's a very nice girl and ready to be friendly with you if you'll let her."
Toby made a rude face. "I knew you were getting fond of her! She's pretty and stylish and—and much more in your line than I am. Why don't you go and ask her to marry you? She wouldn't say No."
She flung the words with a little quivering laugh. She was trembling in his hold.
Bunny's eyes had flashed to sudden anger. He had taken her by the shoulders almost as if he would shake her.
"Toby, be quiet!" he commanded. "Do you hear? You're going too far! What do you mean by talking in this strain? What has she done to you?"
"Nothing!" gasped back Toby, backing away from him in a vain effort to escape. "She hardly knows me even. It's just instinct with her and she can't help it. But she likes you well enough not to want you to marry me. You don't suppose—you don't suppose—" the words came breathlessly, jerkily—"you—you really don't suppose, do you, that—that she made that suggestion about a season in town for my sake?"
"What other reason could she have had?" demanded Bunny sternly.