“Your opinion of women, Billy Boynton, just about tallies with the most conservative estimate of the Middle Ages.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” he grinned, then his evil genius prompting, he continued. “Isn’t that just about what you have me for—to fall back on? You’re fond of me. You know I’ll be there if the bottom drops out. You’re sure of me, and you’re holding me in reserve against 174 the time when you feel like concentrating your attention on me.”
“Is that what you think?”
“Sure, it’s the way it is. If I haven’t got any kick coming I don’t see why you should have any. You’re worth it to me. That’s the point.”
Caroline opened her lips to speak, and then thought better of it. The dangerous glint in her pellucid hazel eyes was lost on Billy. He was watching the clear cool curve of her cheek, the smooth brown hair brushed up from the temple, and tucked away under the smart folds of a premature velvet turban.
“I like those mouse-colored clothes of yours,” he said contentedly.
“I think the only reason a woman should marry a man is that she—she—”
“Likes him?” Billy suggested.
“No, that she can be of more use in the world married than single. She can’t be that unless she’s going to marry a man who is entirely in sympathy with her point of view.”
“That I know to be unsound,” Billy said. “Caroline, my love, this is a bat. Can’t we let these matters of the mind rest for a little? See, I’ve ordered Petite Marmite, and afterward an 175 artichoke, and all the nice fattening things that Nancy won’t let me eat.”