What, at any rate, if she does look queer?
She must be mad not to accept that alternative." "She _is_ mad," said Geoffrey Dawling.
"Mad to refuse you, I grant.

Besides," I went on, "the pince-nez, which was a large and peculiar one, was all awry: she had half pulled it off, but it continued to stick, and she was crimson, she was angry." "It must have been horrible!" my companion groaned.
"It _was_ horrible.

But it's still more horrible to defy all warnings; it's still more horrible to be landed in--" Without saying in what I disgustedly shrugged my shoulders.
After a glance at me Dawling jerked round.

"Then you do believe that she may be ?" I hesitated.

"The thing would be to make _her_ believe it.