“Polly’s up on endocrines. Every once in a while she and Elsie get going on the subject, but I always shut them up. Never did like the idea of knowing too much about my inwards. Don’t know which side my liver is on and always dodged physiology at school. Suppose it’s because I never was ill in my life. Besides, as far as I can make out, they wouldn’t take much interest in endocrines if one set didn’t happen to be stocked up with sex and made the others dance to its tune more or less. That’s enough for me. By the way, what do you think Elsie told me the other day—said she thought the time had come when I could stand it——” She paused abruptly and jerked her shoulders, her brows an unbroken and twisted line. “I’d be interested to know.” His eyes narrowed to conceal a smile. “I hate to repeat it and she made me so furious I could have thrown something at her. Said the reason I never could look like a boy was because I had no male cells in some place or other—that if I had, with the morbid psychology induced by my early experience and hatred of your sex, nothing could have ‘saved’ me. I wonder if people were always sex-mad!” “Probably. Today they are more verbally interested because for the first time they know something of cause instead of merely taking effect for granted, and romanticizing it. But Elsie was quite right. You have an uncommonly balanced endocrine constitution and you may be thankful——” “I prefer not to think about it.” “Don’t. Forget it by all means.” “I shall, now that I’ve unloaded it on you. . . . I should think that knowing too much would be the death of romance.” “Quite. And far better for the race. But you’re the last person I should expect to set up a wail over the death of romance.” “Not I. Jolly good thing it’s out of date. Merely made an observation. You’ve taught me to look all round a subject.” “And you’re the aptest of pupils. But I’m tired of playing schoolmaster—for the present—and I should think that in time it would corrode the vanity of a beautiful and highly intelligent woman to sit constantly at the feet of a man. Do let us play for a while.” Gita looked hard at him, but he returned her stare unflinchingly. “You said yourself that love was a matter of suggestion, and you might come to fancy you were really in love with me,” she remarked. “That would be simply horrid and spoil everything.” “My imagination never runs away with me even when I am writing fiction. And I assure you I shall never be in doubt of my true sentiments for a moment.” Gita smiled. “You do play rather well. I’ve often watched you at parties.” “Whole-heartedly.” He looked prosaic enough with that beard and those rather plump cheeks. And if she could simulate interest in him it would help her to be noble with Polly. If Geoffrey Pelham looked on, so much the better. Another act in her play—more unreal than the stage itself! “All right.” She caught her hat by the crown and stood up. “What’s the first move? How do I do it?”