She was on the point of telling him that Mrs. Pleyden and Elsie had expressed themselves forcibly, and that Polly was serious . . . that would settle it. But she could not—or would not. Moreover Topper entered at the moment. Gone was the desire to show Polly her place, but Polly had had her chance and lost out. Why should she sacrifice herself further? . . . Sacrifice? She frowned down at the unsteady hands in her lap. What did she feel, anyhow? Damn it. Then that zealous little censor she had firmly dethroned reinstated itself slyly. Why, of course, she wanted his friendship. She must have a friend. She’d not make a second mistake and marry one—not she—a man whose eyes burned like blue rockets . . . rather interesting, a friendship with a spice of danger in it. Her friendship with Eustace had certainly lacked that. He’d never hung out a danger-signal until that night after the party when his eyes betrayed that the bottom was beginning to fall out of his little game. And in him it was merely revolting. The very thought made her sick. But it attracted her uncannily in this man, in spite of the fact that she had nothing to give him. Well, she’d have him for a friend if she could manage him. Heaven knew she needed one. Being a hermit in an old manor house didn’t really appeal to her at all. No drama in that. . . . Here might be the bridge to something new. Element of suspense in it, anyhow. . . . Who knew? What, after all, was life but successive links in a chain? Topper had brought in a lemon pie as light as a soufflé and retired. She looked up and smiled, a hesitating, curiously girlish smile. Geoffrey’s face was calmer but his eyes still burned. “You won’t really go?” she asked pleadingly. “You know how Eustace depends on you. It might set him back. And now that you’re no longer worried about him you’re enjoying your vacation. If it’s all right about Polly there’s no need to bother. And nobody else will be here but your sister. Mrs. Pleyden thinks Eustace wrenched his shoulder and has only telephoned once to inquire. Topper and the gardener won’t talk. Nor those nurses, I suppose. The other servants think he slipped and fell downstairs. And I don’t want a strange doctor here. And as Elsie’s coming to stay, no doubt Polly will go home. Do, please, stay.” There was no coquetry in her manner, but he looked at her probingly. There was a new intonation in her voice and her face had softened curiously. She looked not unlike a coaxing child . . . not quite. But his mind felt a little dazed. She had been so many different kinds of female since he had seen her, less than an hour ago, sitting under that portrait of her grandmother. . . . But he was not too bemused to ask pointedly: “Do you want me to stay?”