for sympathy, of late, seemed the inevitable overture to the unmusical opera of mushiness.
"I'll tell you what's the matter with you, Teddie," asserted Gerry, wondering why she was refusing to meet his gaze. "You're inflammatory without quite knowing it. You're provocative, without being foolish enough to have fathomed the fact. The Lord made you so lovely, girl, that you put an ache in men's hearts and a mist in front of their eyes. You make them forget themselves. And that's why I've got to take you in hand."
"Take me in hand?" repeated Teddie, standing up very straight and white.
"Yes, take you in hand," repeated Gerry in turn.
"I rather think I've something to say about that!"
"Teddie, I've loved you all my life," said Gerry, quite simply, disregarding even the abysmal scorn in her voice.
"Then this is no time to tell me a thing like that," she retorted with spirit.
