A Wedding Worth Waiting For

‘You had a date with him on Sunday,’ Farne reminded her.

She was reminded of her idiocy in thinking for so much as the most fleeting of moments that he might be just the scrappiest bit jealous. He looked it! Smiling, easy, conversational. ‘I went to his place for tea.’ She saw no reason not to tell him.

‘He lives alone?’ Farne asked sharply. My word, what had happened to his being smiling, easy, conversational?

‘He’s quite good at it,’ she flipped his way. ‘Anyhow, I don’t ask you about your women-friends!’ she flared with hostility—and as Farne stared at her a gentle look all at once came to his blue eyes.

‘Oh, Karrie,’ he crooned softly. ‘Our second row!’

She laughed; she couldn’t help it. But she wished she could fathom this love business. No way did she want to quarrel with Farne yet, but a second or two ago she had been ready for pitched battle!

‘Where were we?’ she asked, calling a truce.

‘You were not asking me about my women-friends.’ He had instant recall—and frightened her half to death when, his look keen, direct, he queried, ‘You care?’

Too close! Much too close! ‘Of course, desperately,’ she replied, and, to show him how seriously he could take that, she grinned. Farne’s eyes stayed on her, but she was never more glad when, to prove he hadn’t taken her seriously anyhow, his mouth started to pick up at the corners. Then the waiter was there to clear away their used dishes and to enquire what they would like for pudding.

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