“And you—?” He frowned. “Aren’t you free, too?”
She touched the flowers in her breast, looking at them. “Yes, of course, I am. It was nice of you to ask me. I am very happy.”
A cul de sac, that way. Damn it.
Once, at dinner, the person of Jack Senhouse came up for debate. Several persons present had some hand in the game. Mr. Jess and Tristram tossed the name about, across and across. Lady Barbara Rewish flicked it as it passed; Mr. Germain gave it a sedate lift into the air. When it came to Mary, she let it drop. Mr. Senhouse belonged to her innermost self; nobody present knew that she had had anything to do with him. But two things nearly lost her her self-possession. One was to hear her friend in public discussion—and here she exulted in her secret. The other was Duplessis’s scorn of him. That made her hot.
“I was at school with that idiot,” he had said, “and at Cambridge. He was always a waster—but he used to comb his hair in those days.” He looked down the table at Mary; the shuttlecock was with her, and she let it drop. He saw her do it.
Mr. Germain was now under way, and gave it a lift. “I remember that Mr. Senhouse proposed on one occasion to sleep near my coverts—too near to suit the views of Cradock, however. I regretted what followed.”
“What did follow?” somebody asked.
“Well—I regretted it,” said Mr. Germain, closing his eyes for a moment. “Mr. Senhouse accepted my explanation in the kindest way. I must confess that I took no particular notice of his hair, save to observe that he wore it uncovered.”
“He wears it long,” said Tristram, and glanced at Mary Germain.
“If he wears it uncovered,” said Mr. Jess, “he’ll wear it longer than you, my young friend.”