“I hadn’t the slightest idea,” he protested, indignantly, jerking the boat into the boathouse.
“But why have you been making love to her so—outrageously?”
She rose and stood balancing herself gracefully while she lit a fresh cigarette. Her figure was remarkably good.
“Making love to her? I? Nonsense!” he returned, rudely. “She’s the best dancer in the house, and the best sort, all round—those Warringham girls are frights, and the little Parham thing is—poisonous.”
“But—at breakfast, who fetched her eggs and bacon? Who made her tea? Who——”
She held out her hand as she spoke, and leaned on him as she got out of the boat.
“Who got your eggs and bacon, then?” he retorted.
It was the first sounding of the Personal tone, and behind the cigarette her lips quivered for a fraction of a second.
Then, looking up at him: “Colonel Durrant—a contemporary of my own, as is right and proper.”
“A contemporary—why, the man’s old enough to be your father!”