“Believe me, yes,” he replied cheerfully.
She drummed with her pink finger-tips on her chin, studying him meditatively. To do him justice, she had to admit that he did not even pretend much. He wanted her because she was a step up in the social ladder, and, in his opinion, the most attractive girl he knew. That he was not in love with her relieved the situation, as Miss Balfour admitted to herself in impersonal moods. But there were times when she could have wished he were. She felt it to be really due her attractions that his pulses should quicken for her, and in the interests of experience she would have liked to see how he would make love if he really meant it from the heart and not the will.
“It’s really an awful bother,” she sighed.
“Referring to the little problem of your future?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t make up your mind whether I come in?”
“No.” She looked up brightly, with an effect of impulsiveness. “I don’t suppose you want to give me another week?”
“A reprieve! But why? You’re going to marry me.”
“I suppose so.” She laughed. “I wish I could have my cake, and eat it, too.”
“It would be a moral iniquity to encourage such a system of ethics.”