“I knew it.... There was such a funny look in your eyes when I first saw you....”
“Funny is the right word. The crisis was rather humorous.”
“Poor man, he only wished to be civil, perhaps—I mean, that is, in lending his car; and he may really have thought you—you were not a chauffeur—like Simmonds, or Smith, for example. You wouldn’t have hit him, of course?”
“I sincerely hope not.”
She caught her breath and peered at him again, and there was a light in her eyes that would have infuriated Marigny had he seen it. It was well, too, that Medenham’s head was averted, since he simply dared not meet her frankly inquisitive gaze.
“You know that such a thing would be horrid for me—for all of us,” she persisted.
“Yes,” he said, “I feel that very keenly. Thank goodness, the Frenchman felt it also.”
Cynthia thought fit to skip to the third item in her list.
“Now as to Captain Devar?” she cried. “His mother is dreadfully annoyed. She hates dull evenings, and the four of us were to play bridge to-night at Hereford. Why was he sent away?”
“Sent away?” echoed Medenham in mock amazement.