“To a certain extent. Won’t you sit down? That’s right.” He took his seat by her side. “I’ve changed my mind now.” “What d’you think now?” “I think you wanted to put me off,” said Nicholas. “And I want to know why.” “You remember what I told you—about my life?” “Every word.” “Well, I spoke without thinking, you know. I don’t know why. I’ve never done it before. And suddenly I realised that. . . .” “Yes?” Susan hesitated. Then— “I knew a woman once,” she said, “who was always tied up for money. And she used to come to Aunt Beatrice. She never asked her right out, but she used to tell her the awful plight she was in and say if she couldn’t get someone to lend her two hundred dollars she’ld have to kill herself and—and look volumes. . . . Well, it wasn’t pretty.” “No,” said Kilmuir. “But how does that apply?” “I realized the other night that I’d done exactly the same—told you in so many words _how you could rescue me_. . . . You see, I didn’t know then that you were married. If the woman had come and told me how poor she was, it wouldn’t have mattered, because I had nothing. But Aunt Beatrice had the means. In the same way, my telling you my plight doesn’t matter now, because you can’t help.” There was a long silence. At length— “Surely,” said Nicholas gently, “you knew me better than that? Surely you needn’t ’ve thought——” “You’re a man,” said Susan. “You don’t know how frightfully sensitive about marriage a woman can be. Many a girl’s thrown away happiness rather than let a man even suspect—quite wrongly—that she’s setting the pace.” “I’m inclined to think that still more have set the pace rather than run the risk of throwing away happiness.” Susan laughed. “And, what’s more,” continued Kilmuir, “the latter have all my sympathy.” “Listen to the man,” said Susan. “Supposing,” said Nicholas John, “I had been a bachelor. You naturally thought I was, because there are still men left who travel with their wives. I happen to have a good reason for not being one of them. Next time I go abroad I hope my wife will be with me. But that’s by the way. Supposing I had been a bachelor and, as such, eligible—to pull you out of your slough. And supposing I’d decided that I loved you and had asked you to be my wife. . . . And supposing you’d thought it good enough. . . . D’you mean to say you’ld ’ve actually turned me down?” “Undoubtedly,” said Susan. “Why?” “They call it,” said Susan, “‘self-respect.’ You might have sworn that you loved me, but I should have been terrified that it was only _Noblesse oblige_.” “Surely a woman can distinguish pity from love?” “A wife could, because she’ld be in a position to apply all sorts of tests. But that’s not very much good. I mean, it’s a bit late . . .” Kilmuir took out a cigarette. “Three days ago,” he said slowly, “you told me I meant what I said.” Susan started. “That what I said rang true. Yet I might have sworn that I——”