Mariana
demanded too much. He told her this with the dessert.
"It's only the commonest charity," she repeated. Her attack rapidly
veered. "Howat," she asked, "do you really dislike Jimmy?" Certainly, he
asserted, he--he disapproved of him ... altogether. A headstrong young
donkey who had made a shocking mess of his life. He would have to make
the best of a bad affair for which no one was to blame but himself. "It
is terrific," she agreed, almost cheerfully; and he had a vague sense of
having, somehow, delivered himself into her hands. "Perhaps something
can still be done," she said, frowning, increasing the dangers of his
position. He managed, by a stubborn silence, to check further
conversation in that direction; hoping, vainly, that James Polder
couldn't come, that Harriet, sensibly, would insist on his accompanying
her, or that Byron would solemnly intervene.
Mariana, later displaying a letter, dispelled his wishes. "It's been
arranged quite easily," she told him. "Harriet will go home. I'd like to
be here when he arrives, but I can't. You'll be a dear, Howat, won't
you?" she begged. "I'm certain James will give you no trouble. And do
send him to bed early." At this he grew satirical, and she laughed in an
unaccustomed, nervous manner that upset him surprisingly.
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