“And you and I are to play a continuous vaudeville for three months? Is that your offer?”
“Partly.”
“Then one day with me is not worth those many days of murder?” she asked in pretended astonishment.
“Ask yourself why those many days would be doubly empty,” he said so seriously that the pointless game began to confuse her.
“Then”—she turned lightly from uncertain ground—“then perhaps we had better be about that matter of the cup you prize so highly. Are you ready, Mr. Siward? There is much to be killed yet—including time, you know.”
But the hinted sweetness of the challenge had aroused him, and he made no motion to rise. Nor did she.
“I am not sure,” he reflected, “just exactly what I should ask of you if you insist on taking away—” he turned and looked about him through the burnt gold foliage, “—if you took away all this out of my life.”
“I shall not take it; because I have nothing in exchange to offer... you say,” she answered imprudently.
“I did not say so,” he retorted.
“You did—reminding me that the court is already engaged for a continuous performance.”