“Yes?”
“Oh—I—it is—of course it's a joke.”
“No; I'm serious.”
“Serious! Nonsense!”
“Please don't say that.”
He looked at her, appalled.
“But I—but you don't love—can't be in love with me!” he stammered.
“I am.”
Gloved hands tightening on either end of her riding-crop, she bent her knee against it, balancing there, looking straight at him.
“I meant to tell you so,” she said, “if you didn't tell me first. So—I was rather—tired waiting. So I've told you.”