“I’ve no wish to have supper with you,” she said.
“No? Yet, after all, it’s you who’ve despoiled me of my rightful guest,” he returned, with bland mockery in eyes and voice. “It’s certainly up to you to provide a substitute. Perhaps”—banteringly—“we might even discuss the question of those notes of hand again—later on! A man’s obstinacy sometimes melts as the evening advances, you know.”
A faint hope stirred in Cara’s heart. Perhaps, if she yielded to his wishes now, without further argument, she might be able, later on, to induce him to reconsider his decision—to persuade him to be merciful. He seemed to read her thoughts with an uncanny insight.
“You’ll stay?” he said.
She nodded, and he helped off the heavy fur wrap she was wearing. Then he pressed the bell-push and, when Achille appeared, gave a curt order for supper to be served. As the Frenchman departed his quick eyes flickered a moment over Cara’s beautiful face and milk-white shoulders. Decidedly, he reflected, his master had good taste.
The supper, as might have been expected, was a very perfectly chosen repast, and as the meal progressed Cara was fain to acknowledge that Brett knew how to act the part of host most charmingly. On her side she played up pluckily, hoping that by falling in with his humour she might yet win the odd trick of the game.
It was not until they had reached the coffee and cigarette stage that he reverted to the avowed object of her visit to the yacht.
“It was really rather a sporting attempt on your part,” he remarked, “even though foredoomed to failure. Will you tell me”—curiously—“what induced you to do it?”
“I’m very fond of Ann,” returned Cara evasively.
He shook his head.