‘I’d rather you wouldn’t, and perhaps you wouldn’t mind not talking quite so loud. Mr Challoner seems to be wondering what you’re shouting about.’
‘You shouldn’t torture me.’
She opened and shut her fan,—as she looked down at it I am disposed to suspect that she smiled.
‘I am glad we have had this little explanation, because, of course, you are my friend.’
‘I am not your friend.’
‘Pardon me, you are.’
‘I say I’m not,—if I can’t be something else, I’ll be no friend.’
She went on,—calmly ignoring me,—playing with her fan.
‘As it happens, I am, just now, in rather a delicate position, in which a friend is welcome.’
‘What’s the matter? Who’s been worrying you,—your father?’