“I think you’d do very well. What would you answer if I proposed to you?”
Bylant’s face, which had turned white, suddenly looked as if the blood would burst through the skin. “I don’t understand you,” he stuttered.
“Mean to say you don’t want to marry me?”
“Of course I do!” he exploded. “But how did you find it out?”
“Oh, I’m not as dense as you think. I suppose, as you’re really conventional, you’d have liked to do the proposing yourself.”
“Not a bit of it. I don’t care a damn——” And then a flicker of apprehension in Gita’s eyes, otherwise as cold and calm as the pool, struck a warning note in his consciousness. He sank back on his elbow. The blood ebbed from his face and he shrugged his shoulders.
“Let us have this out,” he said practically. “Unless, of course, you are cultivating your sense of humor.”
“Not at all. I’ve known for some time you intended to marry me, and when Mrs. Pleyden insisted I meet those one-ideaed tanked-up friends of Polly’s often enough to convince me of the utter boredom of a winter in their society, and always had you on hand to make them appear like morons by contrast (she doesn’t share Polly’s enthusiasm for my outrée self, you know), and when you trotted out three of your friends, infinitely superior, but by no means dangerous, I knew the siege was closing in.”
“Good lord!” muttered Bylant.
“You needn’t blush. I admire your tactics immensely.”