“But I do, my dear. I am simply famished,” said Helen.
It was like a base betrayal, but she felt that she must help this good-looking young man who looked at her so pleadingly.
“And it is always so much nicer to have a gentleman escort, isn’t it?”
“You can’t refuse now, Joan,” Hugh said.
Joan! The name suggested to Helen that Joan had not spoken quite the truth when she had told General Bartholomew that she and this man were practically strangers. A strange man does not usually call a young girl by her Christian name.
“As you like,” Joan said indifferently. She looked at Hugh resentfully.
“I do not consider it is either very clever or very considerate,” she said in a low voice, intended for him alone.
“I am sorry, but—but I couldn’t let you go yet. You—you don’t understand, Joan!” he stammered.
She shrugged her shoulders; she went with them because she must. She could not create a scene, but she would take her revenge. She promised herself that, and she did. She scarcely spoke a word during the luncheon. She ate nothing; she looked about her with an air of indifference. Twice she deliberately yawned behind her hand, hoping that he would notice; and he did, and it hurt him cruelly, as she hoped it might.
But she kept the worst sting for the last.