"Unless I find reasons why I shouldn't," she finished provokingly.
"Meaning—what?" he persisted.
He regarded her for a moment in silence, quickly joining in her laughter.
"Oh, what's the use of making such a lot of fuss over a thing? It was imprudent, indiscreet of us, if you like. Hermia and I met by accident. I was tramping it—as you know. I asked her if she didn't want to go along, and she did. Simplest thing in the world. We waved convention aside. Nothing odd about that. We're doing it every day."
"Oh, are we?"
"Yes. The laws of convention were only made as props and crutches for the crooked. If you're straight, you don't need 'em."
"Still," she mused sweetly, "society must be protected. Who is to tell which of us is straight and which crooked? Even if we were crooked, you know, neither of us would be willing t admit it."
"But it's a question not so much of my wisdom—as of Hermia's. You'll admit—"
"I admit nothing," she said quickly. "You've surprised, shocked and grieved me beyond words, both of you, also made me feel a trifle foolish. My judgment is shaken to the earth. Here I've been holding you up as a kind of paragon, a fossilized Galahad, with a horizon just at your elbows, to find you touring France, faisant l'aimable with a frolicsome scapegrace in a bolero jacket."
"I would remind you," he broke in stiffly, "that you're speaking of
Hermia Challoner."