"It's easier said than done," admitted Roy, recalling his own partial failure.
"Charming of you to confess it! Dare I confess that I've found the Hall and the tennis rather flat these few days—without imperilling your phenomenal modesty?"
"I think you dare." It was he who looked full at her now. "My modesty badly needs bucking up—this evening."
Her feigned surprise was delicately done. "What a shame! Who's been snubbing you? Our clever M.B.?"
"Not at all. You've got the initials wrong."
"Did it hurt your feelings—as much as all that?" She dropped the flimsy pretence and her eyes proffered apology.
"Well—you invited me."
"And mother invited Mr Hayes! The fact is—he's been rather in evidence these few days. And one can't flick him off like an ordinary mortal. He's a 'coming man'!" She folded hands and lips and looked deliciously demure. "All the same—it was unkind. You were so unhappy at dinner. I could feel it all that way off. Be magnanimous and come for a ride to-morrow—do."
And Roy—the detached, the disillusioned—accepted with alacrity.