“I think you had better go home.”
“I will, in a minute. But, look here; if you shouldn’t take Farquhar, would there be any chance for me?”
“You!” cried Dolly, her indignation changed to wide amazement. Lucian smiled.
“Now go and tell me that the words don’t sound appropriate from me,” he said, sweet-temperedly. “I’ll be shot if I don’t agree with you, too. They don’t. A poor, rickety, ill-digested ostrich like me has no business in this galley. All the same, I don’t believe in losing anything for want of asking. So if Farquhar by any chance doesn’t suit, remember you’ve got another beau on your string—will you, dear?”
But Dolly stood silent, fastening the links at her wrist and beating the tiles with her foot. Her virginal dignity had been ruffled, but she did not care for that now.
“I thought we were friends!” she said.
“Aren’t we?”
“Not if you are wanting this. How can we be?”
“All right, then, I don’t want it. I guess I know my answer when I’ve got it.”
Dolly took her eyes off the ground and fixed them on his face, using all her powers of observation and deduction. He stood laughing, whimsical, insouciant, with his hands in his pockets, and defied them. But Dolly remembered that he had quoted her own words about his incapacity. “Compliments don’t sound appropriate from you.” If they had not stung, they would have been forgotten. Dolly understood.