"Why the dickens are you so keen?"
She hesitated. She found it chronically hard to put her thoughts into speech, and in this case there were reservations to be made. Gardiner took the words out of her mouth.
"You don't mean you think she'd go for him too?"
Lettice nodded. "She meant to get a confession out of one or the other of you."
"Oh, my Lord!" said Gardiner, and caught himself up. "But if there's nothing to confess?"
A flash went over Lettice's face. Was it conceivable that she had guessed even that last thing? No, it wasn't, Gardiner decided hastily, that was beyond her, she couldn't possibly know. For an instant he thought of telling her himself, but caution, habit, above all self-derision held him back. He blurt out that damaging truth to a chance acquaintance? He wasn't such a fool!—All this passed through his mind in the instant between his question and her reply.
"Well, she didn't give you much of a time while she was trying to find out, did she?"
"No; but—oh, she couldn't try that game on again, it would be too beastly low down, with a man like Denis! Besides, he isn't taking any, he simply hates women.... Look here, tell me exactly what you know, do you mind? What makes you so certain she meant to go for him?"
Lettice drew a long breath. Her explanation, when it came, ran clear and straight. Indeed, her thought was always lucid; it was the words that failed.