“David, you are a hard man to talk to.”
“Oh, no—if you talk directly.”
“All right: suppose I do. Let’s talk about Anne.”
“About Anne!” I exclaimed, taken off my guard.
“Suppose I should tell you, point-blank, I want you for my son-in-law? Well, what astonishes you? My frankness?”
“Why sir, it’s very kind of you,” I began lamely, “but, Anne—?”
“Exactly. As to Anne,—I’m convinced she cares, always has cared,” he said, leaning forward. “I know something happened. I don’t know whether you want to talk about it. Really, I should appreciate—”
The interview had taken such an extraordinary turn that I found myself, without surprise, answering:
“Mr. Brinsmade, quite frankly, I am not in love with Anne.”
“I know that now, but—”