“Bosh!” said Denis.
She tried to explain. "Can’t you see," she said, "it isn’t...it isn’t our stunt at all." It was true. Somehow she had never thought of Denis in the light of a man who might make love; she had never so much as conceived the possibilities of an amorous relationship with him. He was so absurdly young, so...so...she couldn’t find the adjective, but she knew what she meant.
"Why isn’t it our stunt?" asked Denis. "And, by the way, that's a horrible and inappropriate expression."
“Because it isn’t."
“But if I say it is?"
"It makes no difference. I say it isn’t."
"I shall make you say it is."
"All right, Denis. But you must do it another time. I must go in and get my ankle into hot water. It’s beginning to swell."
Reasons of health could not be gainsaid. Denis got up reluctantly, and helped his companion to her feet. She took a cautious step. "Ooh!" She halted and leaned heavily on his arm.
"I'll carry you,” Denis offered. He
