He took alarm, and, reaching across the table, attempted to touch her hand. She evaded him. "Of course I don't want you to do anything dishonorable—but—you said yourself she was a thoroughbred—do you think it's quite the square thing to stand by and let a man like him marry a nice girl like Miss Payson?"
"I thought you said she was supercilious!"
"No, super-civilized, that's all. Call it statuesque. But all the same I hate to see her get stung—don't you, now? Come!" He leaned back and folded his arms.
"She's too haughty for you, I thought!"
"Did I say that? Well, I'm a friend of the family, you know—I want to do what I can for them."
She reached nervously for her wine-glass, and her hand, trembling, struck the chianti flask and tipped it over. Before she could set it straight it had spilled into a plate, drenching a napkin which lay partly folded there. The linen was turned blood red. Cayley laughed at her carelessness loudly. Dougal looked across again, but Fancy avoided his eye.
"Blan," she said, leaning slightly towards him and speaking low, "do you love me? Or are you just playing with me?"
He seemed to consider it. Then he said, very earnestly, and evidently with a subtle psychological intent, "I'm only playing with you, Fancy!" And he smiled.
Her fingers drummed on the table.
"But I'll never treat you the way Granthope did," he added.