“Yes, there is,” he said. “There's no use looking for trouble in a horse. Women who hunt as you hunt take all that's legitimately coming to them. Why doesn't Tom ride his own mare?”
“She rolled on him,” said Marion simply.
“Oh. Is he hurt?”
“Ribs.”
“Well, he's lucky.”
“Isn't he! He'll miss a few drills with his precious squadron, that's all.”
She was looking about her, preoccupied. “Where are your cigarettes, Stephen? Oh, I see. Don't try to move—don't be silly.”
She leaned over the desk, her fresh young face close to his, and reached for the cigarettes. The clean-cut head, the sweetness of her youth and femininity, boyish in its allure, were very attractive to him—more so, perhaps, because of his isolation from the atmosphere of women.
“It's all very well, Marion, your coming here—and it's very sweet of you, and I enjoy it immensely,” he said: “but it's a deuced imprudent thing for you to do, and I feel bound to say so for your sake every time you come.”
She leaned back in her chair and coolly blew a wreath of smoke at him.