“Oh, he’s quite old,” she laughed; “somewhere about forty-eight.”
“And is he in love with you?”
“It just depends. Sometimes he’s rather fond of me on a Saturday; but on Mondays he loathes me.”
“I see. And are you as changeable?”
“No, I love him always; but on Mondays it’s mostly from habit. On Saturdays it’s from choice.”
He looked down at her, and it was on the tip of his tongue to state some commonplace about being jealous. Then suddenly he looked back to his steering wheel, and the commonplace sentence died unspoken. Quite unaccountably he felt less inclined to flirt and more inclined to be really friendly, and for some distance they skimmed along in silence.
They had tea at the Star and Garter, both chatting volubly on the most interesting topics of the day. Hal’s newspaper work had made her cognisant of many subjects very few girls of her age would even have heard of, and her original criticisms delighted him. It was a gay little tea-table, and the time slipped by with extraordinary rapidity. Hal noticed it first.
“Do you know it is half-past six?” she said, “and I’m dining out tonight. We must fly.”
“Is it really past six?…” in astonishment. “How the time has flown! You know, you are such an entertaining little woman, you make me forget everything but yourself.” He looked at her hard, and the force of habit caused him to add: “I doubt if any other woman I know today could have given me so much pleasure.”
“Well, you needn’t thank me,” with her low, fresh laugh, “because I came entirely to give myself pleasure.”