“Bernard.”
“Well?”
“Bernard, Angela Laurenson isn’t like me. You ought to be careful; it’s easy to hurt her feelings.”
“I know all about that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” said Bernard. “I do. I’m not an idiot.”
Trying to draw sentimental confessions from Bernard was like trying to pull a worm out of its hole by the tail. Dolly felt that he was slipping away, and put one last question.
“You do really care for her, Bernard?”
He deliberated for a minute; a most literal truthfulness informed all Bernard’s assertions.
“Well, I wouldn’t jump down into the lions after her glove, like that chap in what’s-his-name,” he said at last: “because I call that silly. But if it was a question of her or me—I guess I’d give my life for hers. I’m not quite a fool, Dolly; I can manage for myself. I say, do you think I ought to keep on these beastly gloves at dinner? If they have birds or things of that kind, they’ll split down the back.”