He was stirred out of his usual calm. And Claire’s gaze lowered before the hot fire she beheld leap into his eyes.
“He’s wealthy,” she said slily.
“And he’s like a tame cat. The creature you hate.”
Claire set her cup down and laughed happily.
“That’s no argument,” she cried.
“Argument?” McLagan shook his head. Then he added significantly: “If you want argument I can give it you.”
“Not that sort,” Claire warned him sharply. “I have your promise. But I’d like to hear any other—from you.”
The man sat up. He leant back in his chair and gulped down half his highball. His moment of unrestraint had passed. He was smiling again, but a feeling something approaching bitterness laid hold of him that Claire would tolerate only his friendliness. He gazed into her face and smiled. But he was yearning with a passion that well nigh devastated his sternly controlled composure. He shook his head.
“No, Claire. You mustn’t marry Max,” he said. “You know him as the actor he is. I know him as he really is.” He leant over the table again. “Say, I wouldn’t marry a she-wolf to Max.”
“Why?”