Captain Fanshawe bent forward, his arm resting on his knees, his face upraised to hers; a very grave face, fixed and determined.
“Do you believe that, Claire? Do you believe what you are saying?”
The grey eyes looked deep into hers, compelling an answer.
“I—I think many of them—”
“Some of them!” the Captain corrected. “Just as some girls encourage a man to gratify their own vanity. They are the exceptions in both cases; but you speak in generalities, condemning the whole sex. Is it what you really think—that most men pretend?”
The grey eyes were on her face, keen, compelling eyes from which there was no escape. Claire flushed and hesitated.
“No! No, I don’t. Not most. But there are some!”
“We are not concerned with ‘some’!” he said quietly, and straightening himself, he cast a glance around.
The guests were standing about in little groups, aimless, irresolute, waiting to be broken up into twos and fours, and drafted off to the empty lawns; across the deserted tea-tables his mother’s eyes met his, coldly reproachful. Erskine sighed, and rose to his feet.
“I must go. These people need looking after. Don’t look so sad. It hurts me to see you sad.”