A light step outside the door made his heart stop beating.
“I've just looked in to say good night, Mr.—er—Roland,” she said, holding out her hand. “Do excuse me. I've got such a headache.”
“Oh, yes, rather; I'm awfully sorry.”
If there was one person in the world Roland despised and hated at that moment, it was himself.
“Are you going out with the guns to-morrow?” asked Lady Eva languidly.
“Oh, yes, rather! I mean, no. I'm afraid I don't shoot.”
The back of his neck began to glow. He had no illusions about himself. He was the biggest ass in Christendom.
“Perhaps you'd like to play a round of golf, then?”
“Oh, yes, rather! I mean, no.” There it was again, that awful phrase. He was certain he had not intended to utter it. She must be thinking him a perfect lunatic. “I don't play golf.”
They stood looking at each other for a moment. It seemed to Roland that her gaze was partly contemptuous, partly pitying. He longed to tell her that, tho she had happened to pick on his weak points in the realm of sport, there were things he could do. An insane desire came upon him to babble about his school football team. Should he ask her to feel his quite respectable biceps? No.