“I shall, now that I’ve unloaded it on you. . . . I should think that knowing too much would be the death of romance.”
“Quite. And far better for the race. But you’re the last person I should expect to set up a wail over the death of romance.”
“Not I. Jolly good thing it’s out of date. Merely made an observation. You’ve taught me to look all round a subject.”
“And you’re the aptest of pupils. But I’m tired of playing schoolmaster—for the present—and I should think that in time it would corrode the vanity of a beautiful and highly intelligent woman to sit constantly at the feet of a man. Do let us play for a while.”
Gita looked hard at him, but he returned her stare unflinchingly.
“You said yourself that love was a matter of suggestion, and you might come to fancy you were really in love with me,” she remarked. “That would be simply horrid and spoil everything.”
“My imagination never runs away with me even when I am writing fiction. And I assure you I shall never be in doubt of my true sentiments for a moment.”
Gita smiled. “You do play rather well. I’ve often watched you at parties.”
“Whole-heartedly.”
He looked prosaic enough with that beard and those rather plump cheeks. And if she could simulate interest in him it would help her to be noble with Polly. If Geoffrey Pelham looked on, so much the better. Another act in her play—more unreal than the stage itself!