"I think I do," he returned. "But it isn't cricket, Nan. You can kick me out of the house if you like for saying it, but I don't think you ought to have Maryon Rooke around so much."
She flushed hotly.
"He's painting my portrait," she protested.
"Taking a jolly long time over it, too—and making love to you in the intervals, I suppose."
"Sandy!"
"Well, isn't he?" Sandy's green eyes met hers unflinchingly.
"Anyway, I'm not in love with him."
"I should hope not," he observed drily, "seeing that you're going to be
Mrs. Trenby."
She gave an odd little laugh.
"That wouldn't make an insuperable barrier, would it? I don't suppose—love—notices whether we're married or single when it comes along."