Again came the look of trouble. “But suppose I don’t happen to think so?”
“I think so for you. In fact, I think it so strongly that I intend to answer for both.”
She could not help secretly admiring this cool audacity. At any rate, it was the speech of a man who knew his own mind, and in spite of herself it pleased her.
“Now, remember.” Once more the over-bold wooer resorted to physical violence: “You simply can’t afford to enjoy the luxury of your fine feelings in this scene of the comedy. As I say, he’s a cunning old fox and he’ll play on them for all he’s worth.”
“But why should he?”
“Because he knows you are Mrs. Sanderson’s niece.”
“In his opinion that would make one the less likely to have them, wouldn’t it?” She tried very hard to keep so much as a suspicion of bitterness out of her tone, yet somehow it seemed almost impossible to do that.
“He’s not exactly a fool. Nobody knows better than he that your Aunt Sanderson is more royalist than the king. And my view is that he and she have laid their heads together in order to work upon your scruples.”
“Pray, why shouldn’t they? Isn’t it right that they should?”
“There you go!” he said sternly. “Now, look here.” In the intensity of the moment his face was almost touching hers. “I’m next in at Bridport House, so this is my own private funeral. But I just want to say this. A man can’t go knocking about the world in the way I have done without getting through to certain things. And as soon as that happens one no longer sees Bridport House at the angle at which it sees itself. White marble and precedence were all very well in the days of Queen Victoria, but they won’t build airships, you know.”