Cunningham turned to Jane again.
“Will you do me the favour of taking out the hairpins and loosing it?”
“No!” said Dennison.
“Why not?” said Jane, smiling bravely enough, though there ran over her spine a chill.
It wasn’t Cunningham’s request—it was Dennison’s refusal. That syllable, though spoken moderately, was the essence of battle, murder, and sudden death. If they should clash it would mean that Denny—how easy it was to call him that!—Denny would be locked up and she would be all alone. For the father seemed as aloof and remote as the pole.
“You shall not do it!” declared Dennison. “Cunningham, if you force her I will break every bone in your body here and now!”
Cleigh selected an olive and began munching it.
“Nonsense!” cried Jane. “It’s all awry 130 anyhow.” And she began to extract the hairpins. Presently she shook her head, and the ruddy mass of hair fell and rippled across and down her shoulders.
“Well?” she said, looking whimsically into Cunningham’s eyes. “It wasn’t there, was it?”
This tickled Cunningham.