She sighed.
"Oh, well,—I don't promise, and we've had enough of the dismal subject for now. One never seems allowed to enjoy one's self in peace. D'you want more music, or—would you prefer whist?"
"I'm to cut in, and leave Richardson free. Is that it?"
The blush that still burned in her cheeks spread slowly over her neck to the soft lace at her breast; and the man felt that in his momentary vexation he had struck too hard. Then her eyes flashed fire into his.
"Major Desmond, if you begin saying things like that to me—I shall hate you."
"No, Quita. It'll never be that between us. I apologise. But you know I care immensely for your husband, and it angers me to see you—apparently indifferent . . ."
"Indifferent? How dare you . . . ?" she breathed low and passionately, her breath coming in small gasps.
"I understand. But I'm not sorry I roused you.—Here comes Honor. I know she wants to get home early. Good-night to you. Am I forgiven?"
"No. But you will be—to-morrow morning. I believe one could forgive you almost anything."
"I'll not be base enough to take advantage of such a generous admission," he answered, smiling and grasping her hand.