“You don’t love him, though.”
Her lashes half met—a habit they had. “No,” she said, “I don’t believe I do.”
“Helena! Helena!” cried Rollins. “Clive, I feel it my duty to tell you that she is engaged, and for the fifteenth time.”
“He has been telling me that I am not in love with Mr. Van Rhuys, and intimating that he has come just in time to save me from a fatal mistake.”
She looked charmingly impertinent, her eyes half closed, her chin lifted, her pink lips pouting from their classic lines.
Clive was somewhat taken aback, but replied promptly, “If I disclaim, it is from timidity, not lack of gallantry: I fear I should learn more than I have the power to teach.”
Everybody laughed. Miss Belmont’s eyes sparkled. “You mean,” she said, when the attention of the others was once more diverted, “that you are not going to fall in love with me. Everybody does, you know. I never mind surrounding myself with beautiful women, because I am much more fascinating than any of them.”
“I am hopelessly unoriginal, but I shall make a desperate effort this time.”
“Why do you say that? You look quite unlike anyone I have ever seen; I mean quite a different person looks out of your eyes.” Her own eyes had a frankly speculative regard devoid of coquetry. Clive’s masculine vanity warmed.
“You read a great deal, I hear,” he said.