Murder Is Easy - Agatha Christie [39]
“You’ve got a bitter tongue, haven’t you?”
Bridget retorted sharply:
“I don’t tell myself fairy stories if that’s what you mean! I’m a young woman with a certain amount of intelligence, very moderate looks, and no money. I intend to earn an honest living. My job as Gordon’s wife will be practically indistinguishable from my job as Gordon’s secretary. After a year I doubt if he’ll remember to kiss me good night. The only difference is in the salary.”
They looked at each other. Both of them were pale with anger. Bridget said jeeringly:
“Go on. You’re rather old-fashioned, aren’t you, Mr. Fitzwilliam? Hadn’t you better trot out the old clichés—say that I’m selling myself for money—that’s always a good one, I think!”
Luke said: “You’re a cold-blooded little devil!”
“That’s better than being a hot-blooded little fool!”
“Is it?”
“Yes. I know.”
Luke sneered. “What do you know?”
“I know what it is to care about a man! Did you ever meet Johnnie Cornish? I was engaged to him for three years. He was adorable—I cared like hell about him—cared so much that it hurt! Well, he threw me over and married a nice plump widow with a North-Country accent and three chins and an income of thirty thousand a year! That sort of thing rather cures one of romance, don’t you think?”
Luke turned away with a sudden groan. He said:
“It might.”
“It did….”
There was a pause. The silence lay heavy between them. Bridget broke it at last. She said, but with a slight uncertainty in her tone:
“I hope you realize that you had no earthly right to speak to me as you did. You’re staying in Gordon’s house and it’s damned bad taste!”
Luke recovered his composure.
“Isn’t that rather a cliché too?” he inquired politely.
Bridget flushed. “It’s true, anyway!”
“It isn’t. I had every right.”
“Nonsense!”
Luke looked at her. His face had a queer pallor, like a man who is suffering physical pain. He said:
“I have a right. I’ve the right of caring for you—what did you say just now?—of caring so much that it hurts!”
She drew back a step. She said: “You—”
“Yes, funny, isn’t it? The sort of thing that ought to give you a hearty laugh! I came down here to do a job of work and you came round the corner of that house and—how can I say it—put a spell on me! That’s what it feels like. You mentioned fairy stories just now. I’m caught up in a fairy story! You’ve bewitched me. I’ve a feeling that if you pointed your finger at me and said: ‘Turn into a frog,’ I’d go hopping away with my eyes popping out of my head.”
He took a step nearer to her.
“I love you like hell, Bridget Conway. And, loving you like hell, you can’t expect me to enjoy seeing you get married to a potbellied pompous little peer who loses his temper when he doesn’t win at tennis.”
“What do you suggest I should do?”
“I suggest that you should marry me instead! But doubtless that suggestion will give rise to a lot of merry laughter.”
“The laughter is positively uproarious.”
“Exactly. Well, now we know where we are. Shall we return to the tennis court? Perhaps this time you will find me a partner who can play to win!”
“Really,” said Bridget sweetly, “I believe you mind losing just as much as Gordon does!”
Luke caught her suddenly by the shoulders.
“You’ve got a devilish tongue, haven’t you, Bridget?”
“I’m afraid you don’t like me very much, Luke, however great your passion for me!”
“I don’t think I like you at all.”
Bridget said, watching him:
“You meant to get married and settle down when you came home, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“But not to someone like me?”
“I never thought of anyone in the least like you.”
“No—you wouldn’t—I know your type. I know it exactly.”
“You are so clever, dear Bridget.”
“A really nice girl—thoroughly English—fond of the country and good with dogs…You probably