Saturday afternoon and looked lazy and peaceful in the sunshine.
“Here are your peas,” said Bridget.
Luke paid no attention to the object of the visit. He said, “Why did you give them the set?”
Bridget's eyebrows went up a fraction.
“I'm sorry. I went to bits. My tennis is erratic.”
“Not so erratic as that! Those double faults of yours wouldn't deceive a child! And those wild shots - each of them half a mile out!”
Bridget said calmly, “That's because I'm such a rotten tennis player. If I were a bit better I could, perhaps, have made it a bit more plausible! But as it is, if I try to make a ball go just out, it's always just on the line and all the good work still to do.”
“Oh, you admit it then.”
“Obvious, my dear Watson.”
“And the reason?”
“Equally obvious, I should have thought. Gordon doesn't like losing.”
“And what about me? Supposing I like to win?”
“I'm afraid, my dear Luke, that that isn't equally important.”
“Would you like to make your meaning just a little clearer still?”
“Certainly, if you like. One mustn't quarrel with one's bread and butter. Gordon is my bread and butter. You are not.”
Luke drew a deep breath. Then he exploded.
“What do you mean by marrying that absurd little man? Why are you doing it?”
“Because as his secretary I get six pounds a week, and as his wife I shall get a hundred thousand settled on me, a jewel case full of pearls and diamonds, a handsome allowance, and various perquisites of the married state.”
“But for somewhat different duties!”
Bridget said coldly, “Must we have this melodramatic attitude towards every single thing in life? If you are contemplating a pretty picture of Gordon as an luxurious lover, you can wash it right out. Gordon, as you should have realized, is a small boy who has not quite grown up. What he needs is a mother, not a wife. Unfortunately, his mother died when he was four years old. What he wants is someone at hand to whom he can brag, someone who will reassure him about himself and who is prepared to listen indefinitely to Lord Easterfield on the subject of himself.”
“You've got a bitter tongue, haven't you?”
Bridget retorted sharply, “I don't tell myself fairy stories, if that's what you mean! I'm a young woman with a certain amount of intelligence, very moderate looks, and no money. I intend to earn an honest living. My job as Gordon's wife will be practically indistinguishable from my job as Gordon's secretary. After a year, I doubt if he'll remember to kiss me good night. The only difference is in the salary.”
They looked at each other. Both of them were pale with anger. Bridget said jeeringly, “Go on. You're rather old-fashioned, aren't you, Mr. Fitzwilliam? Hadn't you better trot out the old cliches - say that I'm selling myself for money - that's always a good one, I think!”
Luke said, “You're a cold-blooded little devil!”
“That's better than being a hot-blooded little fool!”
“Is it?”
“Yes. I know.”
Luke sneered. “What do you know?”
“I know what it is to care about a man! Did you ever meet Johnnie Cornish? I was engaged to him for three years. He was adorable. I cared like hell about him - cared so much that it hurt! Well, he threw me over and married a nice plump widow with a North Country accent and three chins, and an income of thirty thousand a year! That sort of thing rather cures one of romance, don't you think?”
Luke turned away with a sudden groan. He said, “It might.”
“It did.”
There was a pause. The silence lay heavy between them. Bridget broke it at last. She said, but with a slight uncertainty in her tone, “I hope you realize that you had no earthly right to speak to me as you did. You're staying in Gordon's house and it's damned bad taste.”
Luke had recovered his composure. “Isn't that rather a cliche too?” he inquired politely.
Bridget flushed. “It's true, anyway.”
“It isn't. I had every
“Here are your peas,” said Bridget.
Luke paid no attention to the object of the visit. He said, “Why did you give them the set?”
Bridget's eyebrows went up a fraction.
“I'm sorry. I went to bits. My tennis is erratic.”
“Not so erratic as that! Those double faults of yours wouldn't deceive a child! And those wild shots - each of them half a mile out!”
Bridget said calmly, “That's because I'm such a rotten tennis player. If I were a bit better I could, perhaps, have made it a bit more plausible! But as it is, if I try to make a ball go just out, it's always just on the line and all the good work still to do.”
“Oh, you admit it then.”
“Obvious, my dear Watson.”
“And the reason?”
“Equally obvious, I should have thought. Gordon doesn't like losing.”
“And what about me? Supposing I like to win?”
“I'm afraid, my dear Luke, that that isn't equally important.”
“Would you like to make your meaning just a little clearer still?”
“Certainly, if you like. One mustn't quarrel with one's bread and butter. Gordon is my bread and butter. You are not.”
Luke drew a deep breath. Then he exploded.
“What do you mean by marrying that absurd little man? Why are you doing it?”
“Because as his secretary I get six pounds a week, and as his wife I shall get a hundred thousand settled on me, a jewel case full of pearls and diamonds, a handsome allowance, and various perquisites of the married state.”
“But for somewhat different duties!”
Bridget said coldly, “Must we have this melodramatic attitude towards every single thing in life? If you are contemplating a pretty picture of Gordon as an luxurious lover, you can wash it right out. Gordon, as you should have realized, is a small boy who has not quite grown up. What he needs is a mother, not a wife. Unfortunately, his mother died when he was four years old. What he wants is someone at hand to whom he can brag, someone who will reassure him about himself and who is prepared to listen indefinitely to Lord Easterfield on the subject of himself.”
“You've got a bitter tongue, haven't you?”
Bridget retorted sharply, “I don't tell myself fairy stories, if that's what you mean! I'm a young woman with a certain amount of intelligence, very moderate looks, and no money. I intend to earn an honest living. My job as Gordon's wife will be practically indistinguishable from my job as Gordon's secretary. After a year, I doubt if he'll remember to kiss me good night. The only difference is in the salary.”
They looked at each other. Both of them were pale with anger. Bridget said jeeringly, “Go on. You're rather old-fashioned, aren't you, Mr. Fitzwilliam? Hadn't you better trot out the old cliches - say that I'm selling myself for money - that's always a good one, I think!”
Luke said, “You're a cold-blooded little devil!”
“That's better than being a hot-blooded little fool!”
“Is it?”
“Yes. I know.”
Luke sneered. “What do you know?”
“I know what it is to care about a man! Did you ever meet Johnnie Cornish? I was engaged to him for three years. He was adorable. I cared like hell about him - cared so much that it hurt! Well, he threw me over and married a nice plump widow with a North Country accent and three chins, and an income of thirty thousand a year! That sort of thing rather cures one of romance, don't you think?”
Luke turned away with a sudden groan. He said, “It might.”
“It did.”
There was a pause. The silence lay heavy between them. Bridget broke it at last. She said, but with a slight uncertainty in her tone, “I hope you realize that you had no earthly right to speak to me as you did. You're staying in Gordon's house and it's damned bad taste.”
Luke had recovered his composure. “Isn't that rather a cliche too?” he inquired politely.
Bridget flushed. “It's true, anyway.”
“It isn't. I had every
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