"Quite sure?" he said.

She collected herself with an effort. "Quite," she told him with
decision, and met his gaze with something of a challenge in her own.

But he disconcerted her the next moment. She felt again the man's grim
mastery behind the iron of his patience. "I want to talk to you," he
said, "about our marriage."

"Ah!" It was scarcely more than a sharp intake of the breath, and as it
escaped again Dot turned white to the lips. His close scrutiny became
suddenly more than she could bear, and she turned sharply from him.

He kept his hand upon her arm, but he made no further effort to restrain
her, merely waiting mutely for her to speak.

In the room behind them there came the smart knocking of the balls, and
a voice cried, "By Jove, he's fluked again! It's the devil's own luck!"

Dot flinched a little. The careless voice jarred upon her. Her nerves
were all on edge. Fletcher Hill's hand was like a steel trap, cold and
firm and merciless. She longed to wrench herself free from it, yet felt
too paralysed to move.

And still he waited, not urging her, yet by his very silence making her
aware of a compulsion she could not hope to resist for long.

She turned to him at last in desperation. "What--have you to suggest?"
she asked.