“You’ll pardon my presumption in making the offer; but could I, en galant homme, do otherwise?”
“No,” she replied, good-humouredly, “you couldn’t. If you had five thousand a year, it would give me to think, for you’re not unsympathetic. But as you haven’t, I’ve no use for you—as a husband, bien entendu.”
It was a jest. They laughed. Presently a cloud obscured the sunshine of her laughter. She leaned over the table.
“Eustace Huckaby, are you or are you not my friend?”
For once in her dealings with a man whose goodwill she desperately craved, she was sincere. She dropped the conscious play of glance and tone; but she forgot the liquid splendour of her eyes and the dangerous nearness of her face to his.
“Your friend?” he cried, laying his hand on her wrist. “Can you doubt it? I am indeed. I swear it.”
“Do you know why I’m staying here—apparently wasting my time?”
“I’ve supposed something was up; but my supposition seemed too absurd!”
“Why absurd?”
“Quixtus as a husband?”