She made no reply, and he was forced to ask rather lamely:—
“Will you be my friend?”
“Of course.”
“Always?”
“How can I promise that?” she said.
It was then that he took her to the Paris Café, where, all in a turmoil through her new knowledge of men and women, she hardly knew what she was doing, and gave Mendel the curt nod which had so disgruntled him.
Every summer the Detmold students went for a picnic, either up the river, or to a Surrey common, or to one of the forests in the vicinity of London. This year Burnham Beeches was chosen. Two charabancs met the party at Slough, and though Mendel tried very hard to sit next to Morrison, he was outmanœuvred by Mitchell, and had to put up with Clowes.
“I wish you wouldn’t glare at Mitchell so. You make me quite uncomfortable,” said she.
“He is telling her lies about me,” growled Mendel.
“Don’t be absurd,” protested Clowes. “He is not talking about you at all.” She felt rather cross with him because he was spoiling her pleasure, and because she had wanted to sit next someone else, and she added: “People aren’t always talking about you, and if anybody does it’s the models, and that’s your own fault.”