“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “What have I, or my beautiful eyes, to do with Crenshaw and Sparrow?”
“What usually happens to the men who are associated with you in any enterprise: they get daffy over you.”
“Because they get daffy over me is no excuse for stupid execution of the business in hand,” she shrugged. “You never have been guilty of stupidity, Marston.”
“Because I’ve managed never to be a fool about you—however much I have been tempted to become one.”
“Have been, Marston?” she inflected.
“Have been—and am,” he bowed. “I’m not different from the rest—only—”
She curled herself on a divan, and languidly stretched her slender rounded arms behind the raven hair.
“Only what, Marston?” she murmured.
“Only I know when the game is beyond me.”
“So, to you, I’m a game?”