One evening, however, he resolved to be a man of action and at least give an indication of the state of his own heart. With almost devilish craft he decided beforehand on the exact way he would bring the conversation round to the desired point.
"I say, Beatrice," he began when they were settled in their customary place.
"Yes, Tommy?"
"How long do you suppose your aunt wants me kickin' my heels about here?"
"Oh, as long as you want, I suppose. She hasn't told me she was tired of you."
"Yes, but ..."
"But what?"
"I've been here a goodish while, you know. First the boat-race, then the cruise up here, then most of July and now most of August.... Stiffish, wot?... Don't want to wear out my welcome, you know...."
Oh, but it was hard! Why on earth couldn't she do the obvious thing and say, "Why do you want to leave, Tommy?" or something like that? She seemed determined not to give him the least help, so he plunged desperately on.
"Not that I want to go, you know. Jolly pleasant here, and all that—rippin' golf, rippin' people, rippin' time altogether...."