“My word to him. How can I take it back?”
“Easily; by not keeping it.”
They both laughed, and so Mr. Wainbridge found them when he entered the room.
“Is Launa ill?” he asked, in well-bred tones of surprise.
She felt she hated him; his upper lip was too long, his manner too unctuous, and his shoulders were so round.
He glanced from Paul to Launa, and it seemed to him as if his appearance were just what was required to turn the scale in his own favour. She sat up. Paul put a cushion behind her and kissed her hand. Mr. Wainbridge advanced with disapproval and another cushion, which Launa refused with mild gratitude.
The men glared at each other. Mr. Wainbridge was uneasy, Paul triumphant.
“Shall I stay, Launa?” said Paul.
“No; I have a headache,” she said.
Paul left the room, and Mr. Wainbridge waited in silence.