He was silent a few moments, pulling at his cigar: then, "Look here, Lance," he said. "I've got a question to ask. You won't like it. I don't either. But the truth is ... I'm bothered to know what is ... or has been ... between you and...."
"Drop it, Roy." There was pain and impatience in Desmond's tone. "I'm not going to talk about that."
Flat opposition gave Roy precisely the spur he needed.
"I'm afraid I've got to, though." The statement was placable but decisive. "I can't go on this way. It's getting on my nerves——"
"Devil take your nerves," said Lance politely. Then—with an obvious effort—"Has she—said anything?"
"No."
"Then why the hell can't you let be!"
"I shall let be—altogether, if this goes on;—this infernal awkwardness between us; and the things she says—the way she looks ... almost as if she cares."
"Well, I give you my oath—she doesn't. I suppose I ought to know?"
"That depends how things were before I came up. She's twice let your name slip out, unawares. And at Anarkalli she was extraordinarily upset. And to-day—about your hand. Then, riding home, I met Mrs Ranyard. And she started talking ... hinting at a private engagement——"