"You can never trust red hair," he went on, accepting the drink Coventry
had mixed for him. Then, catching the other's eye, he threw back his head
and laughed with that impudent, friendly charm of his that discounted half
his deviltries. "Oh, I can guess what you're thinking! And you're quite
right. I ought to know--because I'm one of the red-headed tribe myself."
"It certainly passed through my mind," admitted Eliot.
"Well, you can't trust 'em. It's true. There's always a bit of the devil
in them. And I happen to know that that demure little person down at your
cottage has sown quite a sprinkling of wild oats."
"Wild oats in a woman are a very different thing from wild oats in a man,"
remarked Eliot, pouring himself out a whisky.
"Yes. But they're a deal more nearly related nowadays than they were before
the war. Staying the night at a hotel with a man pal is sailing a trifle
near the wind, don't you think? Anyway, it's carrying a flirtation rather
far."
The syphon, beneath Eliot's sudden pressure, squirted out a torrent of
soda. Brett's eyes scintillated as he watched the slight accident.
"You're implying a good deal, Forrester," said Eliot gravely, as he dried
his coat with his handkerchief.
Pages:
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320