"Oh," she cried, "that was horrid of me. It was feline."
"It was a little," he admitted.
"It's because I know she doesn't like me."
"Why not say at once it's because you don't like her?"
Her eyes, full, lucid, charged with meaning, flashed to him. She leaped at the chance he offered her to be sincere.
"I don't," she said. "How can I?"
She talked again of trifles, to destroy all cohesion between that utterance and her next.
"I say, I want you to do something for me. I want you to look after Furny."
"To look after him?"
"To stand by him, if—if he has a bad time."