His mouth seemed suddenly to have taken on a new flabbiness of outline.
"Hurry up, Fatty," she repeated, "and don't look so down on your luck. You've a lot to be thankful for. I've two brothers, and if either of them were in this house he'd be taking the skin off your back in strips. Clear the box out and then come back for your suitcase."
Webster obeyed her with docile humility.
"Now then," she went on, when he returned, "one or two questions, Fatty. There's nothing wrong with your car, is there? And never was? This is all a little plot between you and your man. I thought so. Why?"
He smiled—and avoided her eyes.
"It was rather a joke. You said so."
"But not to be carried too far. How old am I, Fatty? Well, I'll tell you. Twenty-eight. And I've knocked about a bit. D'you think I go in for jokes of that kind?" He made no answer. "Well, as it happens, I don't. And if I did——! Tell me candidly, Fatty, do you think I should choose you?"
She stood watching him with an expression of such contempt that the worm turned in spite of himself.
"Then why the devil did you go on as you've been doing the last week?" he demanded, looking up and flushing under her gaze.