“No. But it might happen. You know, Jim, I have nothing to conceal.”
The old troubled look had come back into his face. She noticed it and led the conversation to lighter themes.
“We danced last night after dinner,” she said. “There were some amusing people here for dinner. Then we went to see such a charming play––Tea for Three––and then we had supper at the Biltmore and danced.... Will you dine with me to-morrow?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think you’d enjoy it?––a lot of people who entertain the same shocking beliefs that I do?”
“All right!” he said with emphasis. “I’m through playing the rôle of death’s-head at the feast. I told you that I’m going to take you as you are and enjoy you and our friends––and quit making an ass of myself–––”
“Dear, you never did!”
“Oh, yes, I did. And maybe I’m a predestined ass. But every ass has a pair of heels and I’m going to flourish mine very gaily from now on!”
She protested laughingly at his self-characterisation, and bent toward him a little, caressing his sleeve in 191 appeal, or shaking it in protest as he denounced himself and promised to take the world more gaily in the future.
“You’ll see,” he remarked, rising to take his leave: “I may even call the bluff of some of your fluffy ultra-modern friends and try a few trial marriages with each of ’em–––”