“I don’t mind him either, and Dick Bruce I’ve seen. The actress doesn’t count, and your precious chief you see every day. Now, then, when will you come again?”
He got up from his seat and came round to her side of the table. He had a vague intention of imprisoning her hand, and perhaps her waist, but some indescribable quality held him off. It was difficult to suppose she did not half guess what was in his mind, and yet, without showing the smallest consciousness or shyness, she faced him with a look so boyishly frank and open it utterly disarmed him.
“I am not a bit more persuasive on my right side than my left, and I have promised next Saturday to the Three Graces—who are Dick and Quin and Baby. We are going to the Crystal Palace to see a football match.”
“Then what about Sunday?”
“Oh, I can’t come on Sunday.”
“Why not?”
“I hardly know, except that it usually belongs to Dudley or Dick.”
“Next Sunday needn’t.”
“Well, that’s what I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.” He moved a little nearer. “You’ve got to keep next Sunday for me. It’s my turn. We’ll have a splendid day. We’ll take Peter, and we’ll start early and fly down to the New Forest. It’s glorious in the autumn. We’ll have a picnic-lunch, and tea at an hotel on the way back. So that’s settled.” He got up, and lifted her ulster from the back of a chair. “Now come along, and we’ll slip home before it gets late enough to cause trouble.”