"Oh, you always look lovely," he hastily assured her. "I didn't mean that it wasn't becoming. But—er—er—what I wanted to say was—er—why is it?"
Miss Maitland began to knit, her face bent over the work, her dark head backed by the green distances of the lawn. Ferguson thought she had the most beautifully shaped head he had ever seen. He would like to have leaned back in his chair studying its classic outline. But he was there for a purpose and he held himself sternly to it, looking at her profile and trying to forget that it was as fine as her head.
"I don't know why it is," she answered, "but I do know that you're not very complimentary."
"If you give me a dare like that I'll show you how complimentary I can be. But I'll put that off until later. What I think is that you're worrying—that the robbery has got on your nerves."
"Why should it get on my nerves?"
He was aware of her eyes—diverted from the knitting—looking curiously at him:
"Why, it's been so—so—unpleasant, all this fuss and publicity. It's been a shock."
Her hands with the knitting dropped into her lap. She was now staring fixedly at him:
"Do you mean that I'm worrying because I think I may be suspected of it?"
He was shocked to angry repudiation.