“I—I thought you were twisting my tail,” said Ivan Pomeroy.
“I know. I—I wasn’t. A girl never twists the tail of a man she
respects.”
Pomeroy stepped forward and picked up my lady’s hand.
“I don’t take your view,” he said steadily, “about the Will. The implied
condition was blunter and much more precise. You can’t make ‘enjoyment’
a condition—that’s merely a matter of hope. But you can make—wedlock.”
The hand began to tremble, and Belinda lifted its fellow and covered her
eyes. “Let’s do as you did, dear, and turn it round. If old Drawbridge
had known of our bust-up, d’you think he’d ’ve left us this place?”