Had she looked at him she would have surprised a restless pain in the keen eyes he bent upon her.
“Jean”—he spoke very gently—“have I—to congratulate you?”
It was difficult to preserve her poise of indifference when the man she loved put this question to her, but she contrived it somehow. Women become adepts in the art of hiding their feelings. The conventions demand it of them.
Jean’s answer fluttered out with the airy lightness of a butterfly in the sunshine.
“I am sure I can’t say, unless you tell me upon what grounds?”
“You know of none, then”—swiftly.
“None.”
She nibbled the end of a stalk and surveyed the Wedge-wood bowl critically. Tormarin felt like shaking her.
“Then,” he said gruffly, “let me suggest you revise your methods. The woman who plays with Geoffrey Burke might as safely play with an unexploded bomb.”
His voice betrayed him, revealing the personal element behind the proffered counsel.