“Get your man,” said Miss Keat.
He buried embarrassed eyes in the tapioca pudding which that moment providentially arrived.
“I hope,” he said, his eyes still on his plate, “that nothing in my manner has encouraged you to venture on such familiarity.”
It was impossible to rebuff this woman with the adventurous eyes and the carmine lips. Rebuffs rebounded from her.
“What are you doing this evening, Ned?” she asked.
Intuitively he sensed his peril.
“I am going to my room,” he said, “to think.”
He picked up book, coat, hat.
“You’re not mad, Ned?” she called after him.
“No, not mad,” he said, simply. “Only hurt, terribly hurt.”