The restraint of his manner was infectious, as restraint is apt to be; and she was hampered by a prescience of things to come.
"I was awfully keen to go too," he said, as he obeyed her. "But perhaps it's just as well that I didn't get the chance, judging from . . . from what I hear."
"You shouldn't judge from what you hear," she murmured.
"Shouldn't I? But unluckily it fits in with . . . what I see. Miss Mayhew . . ." he pressed forward, his eyes searching her face, devout worship in the sincere blue depths of them. "Will you be angry with me, if I ask you a straight question?"
She shook her head.
"And will you give me a straight answer?"
"If I can."
"Is it true that you are likely to . . . marry Maurice?"
"Not that I know of." He took a great breath, like a condemned man who hears his reprieve.
"Then, may I still believe . . . what you told me at Lahore?"