"Does she?" said Bunny. He paused a moment, as if trying to concentrate his forces; then he turned to Saltash again. "I'm going back now. I can't dine with you—though I've no desire to quarrel. But you see—you must understand—that I can never—accept anything from you again. I'm sorry—but I can't."
"What are you going to do?" said Saltash.
Bunny hesitated, his boyish face a white mask of misery.
Saltash reached out a second time and touched him lightly, almost caressingly, with the point of his switch. "What's the matter with you, Bunny?" he said. "Think I've lied to you?"
Bunny met his look. "I don't want to quarrel with you," he said. "It isn't—somehow it isn't—worth it."
"Thanks!" said Saltash, and briefly laughed. "You place my friendship at a pretty high figure then. Tell me what you're going to do!"
"What is it to you what I do?" A quick gleam shone for an instant in Bunny's eyes, dispelling the look of stricken misery. "I'm not asking you to help me."
"I've grasped that," said Saltash. "But even so, I may be able to lend a hand. As you say, there is not much point in our quarrelling. There's nothing to quarrel about that I can see—except that you've called me a liar for no particular good reason!"
"Do you object to that?" said Bunny.
Saltash made a careless gesture. "Perhaps—-as you say—it isn't worth it. All the same, I've a certain right to know what you propose to do, since, I gather, I have not managed to satisfy you."