CHAPTER : 22Fish Finlay came back into the living-room. “She’s just worn out, the poor little devil. The maid’s with her.” He went over to the sofa and sat down, his head in his hands. “If Peter hadn’t taken that car out last night . . . Dear God.”
Reeves looked silently at the polished toe of his black boot.
“Finlay,” he said at last, “may I ask you a question that I grant seems to be none of my business?”
“Shoot.”
“Are you in love with Jennifer Linton, or are you not?”
Fish steadied himself. “I am, sir,” he said evenly. “Very much. But I’m not going to marry her. For the reasons you both stated, and one other. She thinks it’s me she’s in love with. But it isn’t. It’s the romantic beauty of self-sacrifice that she’s got herself all mixed up in. First it was for Anne Linton. I met her
