“This is all very interesting, of course,” said Ann repressively. “But I don’t see how it affects me.”
“Do you really mean that?” He rapped out the question sharply—so sharply that she almost jumped.
“Certainly, I mean it,” she replied with a slight accession of hauteur that sat rather charmingly upon her. She rose quickly, as a sound of voices heralded the return of the rest of the party. “And I’d prefer you not to talk to me any more—like that,” she added.
Forrester’s eyes followed her as she moved back into the room and began chatting pleasantly with her returning guests. There was a look of amusement in them mingled with a certain unqualified admiration.
“Game little devil!” he muttered to himself.
Soon afterwards the M.F.H.‘s wife rose to go, and, graciously offering the Tempests a lift home in her car, swept them away with her. When they had taken their departure Lady Susan declared that Ann was looking tired and that it was high time she and Brett started on their homeward tramp.
“You’ll be feeling quite yourself again by next week, my dear,” she said. “Just in time for Brett’s party on the Sphinx,” she added, smiling.
A faint look of hesitation crossed Ann’s face. Brett saw it instantly.
“You promised to come,” he said swiftly, almost as though he dared her to retract her acceptance.
Ann forced herself to meet his glance. She was conscious of an inward qualm of fear and wished to heaven that she had never accepted the invitation to dine on board his yacht. But she was determined not to show the white feather and faced him coolly. After all, in these enlightened days a man couldn’t very well carry you off by force and compel you to marry him! Though she reluctantly conceded that if any man in the world were likely to attempt such a thing it would be some primitive, lawless male of the type of Brett Forrester.