“But it’s preposterous,” he said, angrily. “He can’t keep you shut up like a prisoner.”
“He would if he could,” she answered.
“A truce to this fooling, Hilda,” said Denver, urgently. “We’re nearly at your house. I must see you again; I must. It may be folly, or it may not. I know I only met you eight hours ago—what’s that matter? Time has no meaning on some occasions. I’m being crude, too; I know that, but the circumstances make it imperative. May I motor over from Aldershot and call on you?”
The taxi was already slowing up.
“It’s madness,” she whispered, “absolute madness.”
“Then I’m going to be mad,” he remarked quietly, as the car stopped.
The other taxi was just behind them, and for a moment or two they all stood talking on the pavement. Then, with a prodigious yawn, Joan voted for bed, and the two girls went indoors.
“A gladsome night,” she said, sleepily. “And it strikes me, Hilda, my dear, that for a little sheltered country rose you’re a pretty high-class performer. He’s a pet, that man Denver; in fact, I’d have changed over half-way through if I hadn’t known there wasn’t a look-in for little Joan. Did he kiss you in the bus coming home?”
“Joan—how can you ask such a thing?” cried Hilda, blushing furiously.
“Cut it out, my angel—cut it out. If he didn’t he’s a mutt—and so are you. Heigh-ho! bed for this child.”