"I don't want the kitten all to myself, you know," said Fenwick. "It wouldn't be fair. After all, she was yours before she was mine."
There was not a tremor in the hand that lay in his, the one that was not caressing her cheek; not a sign of flinching in the eyes that turned round on him; not a trace of hesitation in the voice that said, with concession to a laugh in it: "Yes, she was mine before she was yours." Such skill had grown in this life of nettle-grasping!—indeed, she hardly felt the sting now. This time
she was able to go on placidly, in the unconnected way of talk books know not, and life well knows:
"Do you know what the kitten will be next August?"
"Yes; twenty-one."
"It's rather awful, isn't it?"
"Which way do you mean? It's awful because she isn't fiancée, or awful because she might be at any minute?"
"You've picked up her way of going to the point, Gerry. I never said anything about her being fiancée."
"No, but you meant it."
"Of course I did! Well, then, because she might be any minute. I'm very glad she isn't. Why, you know I must be!"