“That’s non-committal. What’s the food like?”
“I don’t suppose you would care for it. It is quite plain, but it is good. It suits me all right, and it suits my purse.”
He pounced upon the words. “Then why in heaven’s name worry? A little extra holiday never hurt anyone, and you have got your sketching.”
“I can’t afford it,” said Frances.
“But if you can sell some of your work.”
“I can’t,” she said.
“Well, I can for you. It’s the same thing. Look here, Miss Thorold! You’re not being reasonable.”
She turned again and faced him. Her eyes were very quiet, quite inscrutable.
“It is not that I am unreasonble, Mr. Rotherby,” she said. “It is simply you—who do not understand.”
There was stubbornness in his answering look. “I understand perfectly,” he said. “I know what you are afraid of. But if you will only leave things to me, it won’t happen. After all, you promised to be my secretary, didn’t you? You can’t seriously mean to let me down?”