Love in a Muddle(3)

"I'll tell dad when I get home," I babbled foolishly. "I'll explain fully all about the searchlights and everything."

I felt absolutely the same as I did when I sat down at my "maths." paper when I tried to matric., after having been awake all night with raging toothache. I felt I couldn't be decisive or adequate or even sensible, I couldn't deal efficiently with a fly that settled on my own nose.

"The inopportune arrival of the Colonel and his wife have made it rather difficult to explain," he hazarded. "Don't you remember gracefully acknowledging our tender regard for each other, and equally gracefully accepting congratulations on existence of same?" He sounded all the time frightfully amused in a bored sort of manner. He had the most delightful kind of voice, frightfully deep and soft, and he drawled in a fascinating way.

We walked, unconsciously, slower and slower, far behind the others, in the scent of the heather that clothed the hill.

It was a wonderful night. It sort of caught you by the throat and made you ache for all the things you could never, never have; crave the deep friendships and wonderful love that would never come your way.

"I am afraid I have been very stupid," I said. "I often am. You see, I am afraid of father."

"He's a bully, a rotten bully," he said; and then: "I beg your pardon, Miss Burbridge—I shouldn't have said that."

"It's just that he shouts, and I can't think when he shouts. I just say something that will make him stop shouting—anything."

"It's funny my not meeting you before," he said. "I've met your mother scores of times. Of course, I've heard of you." He paused thoughtfully, as if he were trying to remember what he had heard.

"I don't go about much," I put in.

It seemed unnecessary to tell him I had no "glad rags."

"Have you ever had a good time?" he demanded abruptly.

"I don't think so," I answered, then sudden loyalty to my parents made me add: "I—I don't care for the sort of good time some girls have."

"Rubbish!" he interrupted rudely. "Every girl likes a good time, and every girl will use a fellow to get one—his money, his influence, his friends, his admiration, his love—anything that adds to her rotten vanity and flatters her. There is no honour among women, they are all the same; there isn't a sport among them—not one; and the prettier a girl is the less of a sport she is."

"I am plain enough to be a sport," I put in.

"Yes," he acquiesced indifferently; then he suddenly swung round on me. "The real explanation of to-night is going to be damned awkward," he said curtly. "Do you realise that?"

"Yes."

"Then why explain? It suits me jolly well if you don't."

"I must."

"Why?"

"Oh—because I must."

"A fool reason."

"We can't pretend to be engaged."

"Why not? I think it would be rather a piquant relationship. It appeals to my debased sense of humour. It would at least have this Stirling advantage over the average engagement. We needn't be a couple of confounded hypocrites the whole time with each other. We have no mutual regard—we could at least reserve our self-respect by being honest; or perhaps the prospect of explaining to the inflammable Major, his Colonel, and the Colonel's lady, the circumstances that necessitated the loving embrace in which they found us to-night appeals to your sense of humour?"

"Don't be a beast," I flashed out.

"You perceive how charmingly natural we are already. I find it refreshing—and I intend to continue to refresh myself. Own honestly that you simply daren't explain. The Colonel is going back to the mess for bridge. When I arrive the entire mess will be in a position to congratulate me. Those officers who have charming wives in billets will carry back the glad tidings of our betrothal."

"You must stop him!" I said. "Oh—please—please—do something! Where are they?" I searched the hill for the three figures.

"They have considerately left us to our lovers' lingering. Your father is swollen with pride to-night."

"Why?"

"Because I am an excessively eligible young man—the sort of young man no one expected you to noose."

"You are a horrible young man—perfectly beastly!"

Yet I did not hate him, he was so frightfully exciting. I can't quite explain to myself what I felt about him. I could breakfast every morning in his company for a year and not know what I was eating once. I am quite sure of that.

"I am not going to let you go," he said suddenly. "I have made up my mind about that. You are a present from the devil to the worst side of my nature. There, aren't you thrilled? Doesn't your foolish female heart flip-flap?"