The girl sat down and smiled at him over the teapot. "A big, fat tea," she murmured, "with lots of scones and Devonshire cream. . . ." "I thought you suggested talking about rather less dangerous topics," said Vane quietly. Their eyes met, and suddenly Vane leaned forward. "Tell me, grey girl," he said, "did you really mean it when you said the last game was very nearly even?" For a moment she did not answer, and then she looked at him quite frankly. "Yes," she said; "I really meant it. I tell you quite honestly that I had meant to punish you; I had meant to flirt with you--teach you a lesson--and give you a fall. I thought you wanted it. . . . And then. . . ." "Yes," said Vane eagerly. . . . "What then?" "Why--I think I changed my mind," said the girl. "I didn't know you were such a dear. . . . I'm sorry," she added after a moment. "But why be sorry?" he cried. "It's just the most wonderful thing in the world. I did deserve it--I've had the fall. . . . And oh! my dear, to think you're crashed as well. . . . Or at any rate slid a bit." He corrected himself with a smile. But there was no answering smile on the girl's face. She just stared out of the window, and then with a sort of explosive violence she turned on Vane. "Why did you do it?" she stormed. "Why . . . why . . .?" For a while they looked at one another, and then she laughed suddenly. "For Heaven's sake, let's be sensible. . . . The toast is getting cold, my dear man. . . ." "I can't believe it," said Vane gravely. "We've done nothing to deserve such a punishment as that. . . ." And so for a while they talked of trivial things--of plays, and books, and people. But every now and then would fall a silence, and their eyes would meet--and hold. Just for a moment or two; just for long enough to make them both realise the futility of the game they were playing. Then they would both speak at once, and contribute some gem of sparkling wit, which would have shamed even the writer of mottoes in crackers. . . . A tentative paw on Joan's knee made her look down. Binks--tired of his abortive blasts at an unresponsive hole--desired refreshment, and from time immemorial tea had been the one meal at which he was allowed to beg. He condescended to eat two slices of saffron cake, and then Vane presented the slop basin to Joan. "He likes his tea," he informed her, "with plenty of milk and sugar. Also you must stir it with your finger to see that it isn't too hot. He'll never forgive you if it burns his nose." "You really are the most exacting household," laughed Joan, putting the bowl down on the floor. "We are," said Vane gravely. "I hope you feel equal to coping with us. . . ." She was watching Binks as he stood beside her drinking his tea, and gave no sign of having heard his remark.