At once he rushed into enthusiastic confirmation; ignoring the former part of her speech except for a soothing remark to the effect that she’d be bound to settle down—as soon as she had a household of her own.
“I’d rather die than settle down,” breathed Deb—to the defiant youth in her. Samson did not hear.
“You’re quite good enough for me, little girl,” thinking she had been sufficiently chaffed, and the moment had come to strike a more serious note. “Quite good enough. Run yourself down as much as you please, nothing you can say will make any difference!”
No, nothing she could say would make any difference, or rid him of the supposition that she was merely deprecating—a prey to modesty....
“I’m different—not worse nor better. We can’t either of us be too good or too bad for each other if we’re different.”
“Very well, then, you’re right, we’re different. Don’t let’s say another word about it——” He smothered her uprising vehemence with a genial pretence of humouring her. “I give in. I’m entirely wrong. Have it your own way. We’re as different as you please. And now, shall I call mother and the others, and tell her it’s all right, and that we’ve made it up?”
“No, please don’t,” she whispered. Her vitality was worn-out from the struggle.
He turned back from the door, disappointed. “Deb—is there another man?”
“No,” again. If only there had been someone, that she could have rung out a triumphant yes.
Phillips was relieved; but knitted his brows anew over the problem of her obduracy. Then he asked her if she would marry him (a) “If I win the V.C. at the Front?” (b) “If I knew more about pictures?” (c) “If I were more lively?”