"Well," he began at once, with the little nervous bluster of the man who doubts his own courage, "I suppose he's told you."
"Yes, he's told me," and then she added, without seeing the strangeness of her words. "I'm so sorry."
He stared, and then, with a little laugh of relief, drained his glass and set it down.
"It had to be," he announced with visible satisfaction at the romantic element of the situation. "But I'm sorry, too, Violet, very sorry. I've fought long and hard."
She looked at him with a little gleam in her eyes that arrested his attention, although he told himself it could not possibly be a gleam of amusement.
"No, Ferdie," she said, "I don't think you fought long and hard. I don't think you fought at all."
Looking pitifully like a pricked balloon, he dropped into a chair and gripped the edge of the dining-room table.
"What do you mean, Violet? Really!" he murmured, with the indignation of a sensitive man confronted with a feminine lack of delicacy.
"Oh, I don't want to hurt your feelings, Ferdie, and no doubt you do feel extremely romantic. But it would save time if you didn't try to be romantic with me. You see, I know you very well."