“No, it’s how a man speaks to a woman.”
Dolly glanced out of the window. “That’s my brother Bernard with his dogs. He stands six foot three, and he’s the best wrestler in Kent.”
“Meaning you’d set him to turn me out? He’d never do it.”
“Do you think you’re as strong as Bernard?”
“Stronger,” answered Farquhar, stretching out his arm. Pride of strength was in that gesture, and more than pride—arrogance.
Dolly had a primitive admiration for strength, and his self-confidence tingled through her veins. She liked him the better that he was dangerous to handle; she was more at her ease that they were outside convention.
“At least, you’re not stronger than Bernard plus half a dozen men whom I could call in a minute,” she remarked, evenly. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to make no fuss, but go?”
Farquhar started, passed his hand across his eyes, and looked at her earnestly, as though her words had wakened him. “Miss Fane, I believe I’ve been saying the most outrageous things!” he exclaimed. “Haven’t I? I don’t know what possessed me. What have I said?”
“A little harmless nonsense, that’s all,” Dolly assured him.
“I must ask you to forgive me. To tell the truth, I’d a touch of sunstroke out in Africa, and since then I’m not my own master at times. I’m literally out of my wits. I don’t know what I’ve said, but nothing was farther from my mind than any rudeness to you—to any lady. You will believe that?”