“Thanks, I’ll take the shake,” she interrupted promptly. “I certainly haven’t deserved such severe punishment as a kiss.”
He took a step towards her, but she stood quite still and laughed in his face; and he could only turn away, laughing himself.
Yet he was conscious that her attitude riled him. He was not in the least vain, but all the same it was absurd that Hal should persist in being the one woman who was not only utterly indifferent to his attractions, but seemed almost to scorn him for them. In some of the others it would not have mattered in the least—at any rate he thought so—but in Hal it was sheer nonsense.
He liked her better than any one, except perhaps Lorraine, and he always enjoyed their sparring; but of course there was a limit, and she really might be seriously friendly sometimes; and anyhow he hated Sir Edwin Crathie.
While he thought all this more or less vaguely, Hal watched him with undisguised amusement.
“Don’t think so hard,” she said; “it spoils the line of your profile.”
“Hang my profile!” he exclaimed, almost crossly. “Can’t you be serious for five minutes, you’re always so—so—”
“Not at all. I’m perfectly serious. A frown doesn’t suit you one little bit. Imagine a scowl on one of Raphael’s cherubim.”
“I don’t want to imagine anything so silly, and I’m not in the least like a cherub. It would be more sensible if you want to do some wise imagining, to think of Sir Edwin Crathie, and imagine yourself in the devil’s clutches.”
“But I’ve not the smallest wish to be in Sir Edwin’s clutches, so why should I try to imagine it?… and you’re not at all polite, are you?”