“Of course. That’s what I’m paid for. I’m a journalist. Have you never heard of the power of the Press? It means a lot of little journalists like me writing as their editors tell ‘em to. But I don’t appear to have much influence on you. I asked you to change the subject and you’re still thinking about Sam.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “I’m still thinking of Sam.”
“You and Sam!” he repeated, looking incredulously at her.
Effie nodded. “But,” she said, “I don’t know yet.”
He rose to his feet. “You’re sure, Effie? You’re sure you don’t know about him yet?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then you do know about me? Effie, I’ve got to ask. Are you sure about me?”
She met his eyes bravely, knowing that she must hurt. She was sure she did not love Stewart, who was free, and not sure about Branstone, who was married. “I am quite, quite sure, Dubby,” she said softly.
“I see,” he said. “Well, I’m not the sort that pesters, but if you want me, Effie, if you find you want me, I’ll be there. I... I suppose I’d better go now. It will take some doing to change the subject after this.”
“Dubby, I’m sorry. You’re not well, and——”