"Of course, I cannot stay if my hostess turns me out thus firmly," he grumbled, "but I'm sure it is not necessary. I believe you're tired of me."
She shook her head confidently.
"I'm very sure you don't think that really."
His momentary ill-humour died away.
"Of course I don't, dear heart. I dare say you are in the right. Everything you do is perfect, only—I warn you—you will have to marry me sooner than ever for this. Can't you settle on a definite date by to-morrow? Do try."
She disregarded his question.
"I'm glad you're not vexed. You did frown at me, you did, and it made you look—oh, terribly ugly—just like a mediæval gargoyle."
"You and Mrs. Harbert have certainly entered into a conspiracy with a view to reducing me to a proper condition of self-depreciation," declared Geoff, smiling at the lofty expression of disdain with which his "Sweet Lady" was still surveying him. He shifted his hat from one hand to the other.
"Come out with me, Evarne. Let us go and have something to eat, and then on to a theatre or somewhere, eh?"
"I've still got the tiniest little headache; I would rather not," she declared. "Good-bye, dearest." Then, correcting herself somewhat wildly: "No, no. I didn't mean good-bye—only good-night! Don't speak ill-omened words, Geoff. Only say good-night."