He did not hastily disclaim the idea as most men would have done.
“That can’t be helped,” he returned bluntly.
Magda felt herself colouring again. This man was insufferable!
“Evidently the role of knight-errant is new to you,” she observed.
“Quite true. I’m not in the habit of rescuing damsels in distress. But how did you guess?”—with interest.
“Because you do it with such a very bad grace,” she flashed at him.
He smiled—and once more Magda was aware of the sense of familiarity even with that whimsical, crooked smile.
“I see,” he replied composedly. “Then you think I ought to have been overwhelmed with delight that your car cannoned into my bus—incidentally I barked my shins badly in the general mix-up—and that I had to haul you out and bring you round from a faint and so on?”
The question—without trimmings—was unanswerable. But to Magda, London’s spoiled child, conscious that there were men who would have given half their fortune for the chance to render a like service, and then counted themselves amply rewarded by the subsequent hour or two alone with her, the question was merely provocative.
“Some men would have been,” she returned calmly.