"Such chances are rare in this twentieth century of ours, and Miss
Quentin always kindly arranges so that I run no serious risks--to life
and limb, at least," he added, his mocking eyes challenging Diana's.
She flushed indignantly. Evidently he wished her to understand that that
breathless moment in the car counted for nothing--must not be taken
seriously. He had only been amusing himself with her--just as he had
amused himself by chatting in the train--and again a wave of resentment
against him, against the cool, dominating insolence of the man, surged
through her.
"I hope you'll stay and join us at dinner," the Rector was
saying--"unless it's hopelessly spoilt by waiting so long. Is it, Joan?"
"Oh, no. I think there'll be some surviving remnants," she assured him.
"Then if you'll overlook any discrepancies," pursued Stair, smiling at
Errington, "do stay."
"Say, rather, if you'll overlook discrepancies," answered Errington,
smiling back--there was something infectious about Stair's geniality.
"I'm afraid a boiled shirt is out of the question--unless I go home to
fetch it!"
Diana stared at him. Was he really going to stay--to accept the
invitation--after all that had occurred? If he did, she thought
scornfully, it was only in keeping with that calm arrogance of his by
which he allocated to himself the right to do precisely as he chose,
irrespective of convention--or of other people's feelings.
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