Approaching footsteps broke in upon them. The square bulk of Jim Maitland appeared in the doorway.
“What ho! you two. Ban, you’re scampin’ your polo practice shamefully. You’ll be crabbin’ the team if you don’t look out. Dinin’ here?”
“Yes,” said Io. “Is Marie down?”
“Comin’ presently. How about a couple of rubbers after dinner?”
To assent seemed the part of tact. Io and Ban went to their corner table, reserved for three, the third, Archie Densmore, being a prudent fiction. People drifted over to them, chatted awhile, were carried on and away by uncharted but normal social currents. It was a tribute to the accepted status between them that no one settled into the third chair. The Retreat is the dwelling-place of tact. All the conversationalists having come and gone, Io reverted over the coffee to the talk of their hearts.
“I can’t expect you to understand me, can I? Especially as I don’t understand myself. Don’t sulk, Ban, dearest. You’re so un-pretty when you pout.”
He refused to accept the change to a lighter tone. “I understand this, Io; that you have begun unaccountably to mistrust me. That hurts.”
“I don’t want to hurt you. I’d rather hurt myself; a thousand times rather. Oh, I will marry you, of course, when the time comes! And yet—”
“Yet?”
“Isn’t it strange, that deep-seated misgiving! I suppose it’s my woman’s dread of any change. It’s been so perfect between us, Ban.” Her speech dropped to its lowest breath of pure music: