But Roger—if, indeed, she had not dreamed—had been comforting. Here the tulips broke in whimsically with the brazen suggestion that it would be delightful to put one's arms round Roger's neck and return that supposititious kiss. A remark, of course, of which no flower but a flaunting scarlet tulip could be capable. Alwynne was horrified at the tulips. Horrified by the tulips, worried by her own uncertainties, puzzled by the imperturbable face smilingdown at her. Certainly not a conscience-stricken face. Probably the entire incident was a wild imagining of the tulips. She had watched those nodding spring devils long enough. Time to go home: at any rate it was time to go home.
It puzzled her anew that Roger's arm was no longer about her, that he should make no effort to detain her, or to reopen the conversation; that he should walk at her side in his usual fashion, originating nothing. Once or twice, glancing up at him, she surprised a smile of inscrutable satisfaction, but he did not speak; he merely met her eyes steadily, still smiling, till she dropped her own once more. A month ago she would have challenged that smile, cavilled and cross-examined. To-day she was quaintly intimidated by it. Indeed a new Roger! She never dreamed of a new Alwynne.
Yet for all her perplexity and very real physical fatigue, Alwynne walked with a light step and a light heart. As usually she was absurdly touched by his unconscious protective movements—the touch on her arm at crossings—the juggle of places on the fresh pathway—the little courtesies which the woman-bred girl had practised, without receiving, appealed to her enormously. She felt like a tall school-child, "gentleman" perforce at all her dancing lessons, who, at her first ball, comes delightedly into her own.
She gave Roger little friendly glances as they walked home, but no words; though she could have talked had he invited. But Roger was resolutely silent, and for some obscure reason this embarrassed her more than his previous loquacity. Gradually she grew conscious of her crumpled dress and loosened hair; that a button was missing on her glove! trifles not often wont to trouble her. She wondered if Roger had noticed the button's absence; she hoped fervently that he had not. She glanced obscurely at shop-windows, whose blurred reflections could not help her to the conviction that her hat was straight. Also it dawned upon her that Roger was weighed down by preposterous parcels;that the parcels were her own. She was sure the string was cutting his fingers. She was penitent, knowing that she would not be allowed to relieve him, and hugely annoyed with herself. She had been scolded often enough for her parcel habit, and had laughed at Elsbeth; and here was Elsbeth proved entirely right. Weighing down Roger like this! What would he think of her? He had not spoken for ten minutes.... Of course—he was annoyed.... They had better get home as quickly as might be....
Elsbeth, sitting at the window, had seen them come down the street, and was at the door to welcome them. Alwynne was kissed, rather gravely, but Elsbeth and Roger greeted each other like the oldest of trusted friends. Alwynne's eyebrows lifted, but Elsbeth ignored her. She scolded Roger for being late, showed him his roses, revived and fragrant in their blue bowls; and when Alwynne turned to go and dress, declared that he looked starved, that supper was long overdue, and must be eaten at once. Roger seconded her, and to supper they went.
Alwynne raged silently. What was the matter with Elsbeth? She had barely greeted her.... And now to be so inconsiderate.... To insist on sitting down to supper then and there, without giving her time to make herself decent! Couldn't she see how tired Alwynne was, how badly in need of soap and water and a brush and comb, let alone a prettier frock? It wasn't fair! Elsbeth might know she would want to look nice—with Roger there.... She did not choose to look a frump, however Elsbeth dressed herself....
It dawned on her, however, as Elsbeth, resigning the joint to Roger, began to mix a salad under his eye, after some particular recipe of his imparting, that Elsbeth, on this occasion, was looking anything but a frump. She wore her best dress of soft, dark purple stuff, and the scarf of fine old lace, that, as Alwynne very well knew, saw the light on high and holy days only; and a bunch of Roger's roses were tucked in her belt. Her hair was piled high in a fashion new to Alwynne: a tiny black velvet bow set off its silvery grey; it was waved, too, and clustered becomingly at thetemples. Alwynne, gasping, realised that Elsbeth must have paid a visit to the local coiffeur. She realised also, for the first time, how pretty, in delicate, pink-may fashion, her aunt must once have been.
At any other time Alwynne would have been delighted at the improvement, for she was proud of Elsbeth, in daughterly fashion, and had wrestled untiringly with her indifference to dress. She knew she should have hailed the change, but, to her own annoyance, she found it irritating. It displeased her that she herself should be dishevelled and day-worn, while Elsbeth faced her, cool and dainty and dignified. Roger was obviously impressed.... Roger, to whom Elsbeth had been so carefully, deprecatingly explained.... It made Alwynne look such a fool.... How was she to know that Elsbeth would have this whim? She had never guessed that Elsbeth could make herself look so charming.... And she to be in her street clothes ... with her hair like a mouse's nest! It was too bad! However, it didn't seem to matter.... Roger, it was clear enough, had no eyes for her....
Her resentment grew. She attempted to join in the conversation, but though Roger listened gravely, and answered politely—she never caught the twinkle in his eye—he invariably flung back the ball to Elsbeth as quickly as might be. She mentioned Dene; made intimate allusions to their walks and adventures; and he turned to explain them, to include Elsbeth, with a pointedness that made Alwynne pink with vexation. She began to long to get him to herself ... to quarrel or make peace, as he pleased ... but anyhow to get him to herself.... Couldn't one have a moment's conversation without dragging Elsbeth into it? So absurd of Roger....
Slowly she realised that neither Roger nor Elsbeth were finding her indispensable, and her surprise was only rivalled by her indignation. Elsbeth particularly—it was simply beastly of Elsbeth—was being, in her impalpable way, unapproachable.... She was angry about something....Alwynne knew the signs.... She, Alwynne, supposed that she ought to have written.... But she did write a postcard.... One couldn't be everlastingly writing letters.... Any one but Elsbeth would have waived the matter, with a visitor present, but Elsbeth was so vindictive.... Here Alwynne's rebellious conscience allied itself with her sense of humour, to protest against the picture of a vindictive Elsbeth. They bubbled with tender laughter at the idea. Alwynne must needs laugh with them, a trifle remorsefully, and admit that the idea was fantastic; that Elsbeth, in all the years she had known her, had been the most meek and forgiving of guardians; and that she, Alwynne, had been undeniably negligent. Nevertheless, why must Elsbeth show Roger the kitchen? What was he saying to her out there? And why were they both laughing like that?
"Cackle, cackle, cackle," muttered Alwynne viciously; "awfully funny, isn't it?"
She continued her reflections.
Fussing over clearing the supper still! One of Elsbeth's absurd ideas, just because it was the maid's evening out.... Let her do it when she came back! Such a fuss and excitement always! What would Roger think of them? What a long time they were! She might take the opportunity of going to change her frock.... She hesitated. What was that? What was Roger saying? She caught the murmur of his deep voice and her aunt's staccato in answer, but the words were blurred.
After all—why should she bother to change? Elsbeth would be sure to make unnecessary remarks.... And Roger wouldn't care—he was too occupied with Elsbeth.... Nobody cared—nobody wanted her.... She would go back to Clare to-morrow.... But if Clare were in to-day's humour still?
What a wretched week it had been.... Even if Clare had not been so moody, Alwynne would have felt ill at ease ... she had known perfectly well that she owed the firstweeks of her return to her aunt ... but at a hint from Clare she had stifled her conscience and stayed.... And now Elsbeth, she could tell, was deeply hurt.... Once away from Clare, Alwynne could reflect and be sorry.... She wouldn't have believed that she could be so careless of Elsbeth's feelings.... She was suddenly and generously furious with herself. How selfish, how abominably selfish she had been.... No wonder Roger had been shocked! Of course neither he nor Elsbeth could ever understand how difficult it was to withstand Clare.... It had been possible once.... Her thought strayed to that early Christmas when she had resisted all Clare's arguments.... But now she had no choice.... However determined one might be beforehand—and she had intended to return that first day—one's will was beaten aside, blown about like a straw in a strong wind.... If only Roger would understand that.... She hated him to think her so selfish.... Elsbeth needn't have told him, she thought resentfully ... it was not like Elsbeth to give her away.... She supposed she had hurt Elsbeth's feelings pretty badly.... Why, oh why, hadn't she been firmer with Clare? She had only to say, quite quietly, that she must do what she felt to be right.... Clare couldn't have eaten her....
She began to rehearse the conversation; it soothed her to compose the telling phrases she might have uttered. They sounded all right ... but, of course, face to face with Clare she could never have said them.... Clare, in indifference, displeasure or appeal, would have conquered without battle given ... in her heart she knew that.
She moved uneasily about the room, deep in thought. For the first time her attitude to Clare struck her as contemptible.... What had Roger said? "Like a dog after a thrashing." Intolerable! She flung up her head, her pride writhing under the phrase. So that was how it struck outsiders! Outsiders? She didn't care a dead leaf for outsiders.... Let them think what they chose! But Roger? And Elsbeth? Did they really think her weakand enslaved? It stung her that Roger should think so meanly of her. She told herself that the loss of his opinion in no way affected her—and instantly began to revolve within herself phrases, explanations, actions, wherewith to regain it. And there was Elsbeth.... He had thought her unkind to Elsbeth.... He was right there! She saw, remorsefully, with her usual thoroughness, that she had been, for many a long year, as the plagues of Egypt to her Elsbeth.
She flung herself on the prim little sofa, and stared at the closed door uncertainly. She was too proud to do what she wanted to do—invade the kitchen, and regardless of Roger's eyes and presence, confess to Elsbeth, and receive absolution. A word, she knew, would be enough.... If Elsbeth felt as miserable as she did—a word would be more than enough....
Elsbeth and Roger, returning to the sitting-room, ended her indecision. Their manner had changed—Roger was quieter—less talkative—but Elsbeth was so radiant that Alwynne decided that contrition could wait. More than ever she realised that two were company....
Her anger grew again as she watched and listened.
Elsbeth had produced cards, and suggested three-handed bridge. Alwynne excused herself, and Roger, who had been her partner on occasion at Dene, was obviously relieved. His Alwynne was the One Woman—but she could not play bridge!
He settled down to double-dummy with Elsbeth. The conversation became a rapt and technical duet, punctuated with interminable pauses.
Alwynne fumed.
So this was Elsbeth's idea of a really pleasant evening! Cards! Beastly, idiotic cards! Roger, her Roger, had come up all the way from Dene to play cards with Elsbeth! Had he just? All right then! He should have all the cards he wanted—and more! As for Elsbeth—catch Alwynne telling her she was sorry now!
The striking of the clock gave her her opportunity. She rose, yawning elaborately.
"I'm going to bed," she remarked to the card-table.
"Are you, dear?" said Elsbeth.
"Oh! Oh, good-night," said Roger casually rising, and sitting down again. "Your shout, Elsbeth."
Elsbeth went "no trumps."
Alwynne lingered.
"Of course the kitchen fire's out?" she said, with sour suggestiveness.
"Do you want a bath? Yes, of course. Do you know, my dear, you're looking rather grubby?" Elsbeth paid her sweetly. "I expect the water will still be hot, if you're quick. Don't forget to turn the light off, will you, when you've finished?"
Alwynne made no answer, but she still lingered. Elsbeth, finishing her hand, spoke over her shoulder—
"Alwynne, dear, either go out, or come in and sit down. There's such a draught."
There was a swish of skirts, and all the innumerable ornaments rattled on their shelves. Alwynne had permitted herself the luxury of banging the door.
Roger laughed like a schoolboy.
"'All is not well!'" he quoted.
Elsbeth laughed too, yet half against her will.
"My poor Alwynne! She hates me to be annoyed with her. It infuriates her. She'll be awfully penitent to-morrow. It's really rather comical, you know. She'll take criticism from any one else—but I must approve implicitly! And you being here didn't improve matters. She was longing to be nice, and I didn't help her. She was quite aware that she was showing you her worst side, and quite unable to get out of the mood. I knew, bless her heart!"
She looked at him with a quick little gesture of appeal.
"Roger—you do understand? That—tantrum—meant nothing. She's such an impulsive child."
He smiled.
"I know. Don't you worry. Besides, it was my fault. I was teasing her all the evening. It was not what she expected. Oh, I'm growing subtle enough to please even you, Elsbeth. You know, she's had rather a full day. Evidently a scorching afternoon with that delightful friend of hers, to start with——"
"Ah?" said Elsbeth, her eyes brightening.
"Oh, yes; she was distinctly chastened. I improved the occasion, and you've about finished her off, the poor old girl! I was expecting that little exhibition."
"I believe—I believe you enjoy upsetting her," began Elsbeth, rather indignantly.
"Of course I do. It's as good as a play!"
Elsbeth sighed.
"Well—I suppose it's all right. You'll have to manage her for the future, not I."
"Oh, she'll do all the managing," said Roger ruefully. "I foresee that this is my last stand. She's just a trifle in awe of me, at present, you know, though she doesn't know it. But it won't last. And then—heaven help me! But, you know, Cousin Elsbeth—to be henpecked by Alwynne—don't you think it will be quite pleasant?"
"It is. She's bullied me since she was three. Oh, Roger, I shall miss her." She blinked rapidly.
Roger stared away from her in awkward sympathy.
"You shan't, not very much," he said. "We'll fix things. You'll have to come and settle with us."
Elsbeth fidgeted.
"You know, you took my breath away in the kitchen just now," she said. "Are you quite sure it's all right? Does Alwynneknowshe's engaged to you?"
He perpended.
"Well, frankly—I don't think she did quite take it in."
"Roger!"
"But I'm buying the engagement ring to-morrow," he added hastily. "That'll clear things up."
Elsbeth looked at him helplessly.
"Roger, either you're a genius or a lunatic. I'm not sure which—but, I think, a lunatic."
"Oh, well! We shall know to-morrow," he observed consolingly. "I shall turn up about eleven. Keep Alwynne for me, won't you?"
Elsbeth struck her hands together.
"It's Clare Hartill's birthday! I'd almost forgotten her! Alwynne will be engrossed. Oh, Roger! You've been telling me fairy tales. We've forgotten Clare Hartill!"
Roger picked up the scattered cards. With immense caution he poised a couple, tent fashion, and builded about them, till a house was complete. He added storey after storey, frowning and absorbed. At the sixth, the structure collapsed. He looked up and met Elsbeth's eyes.
"People in card-houses shouldn't raise Cain. It's an expensive habit," he remarked sententiously. "Elsbeth, don't worry! But keep Alwynne till I come to-morrow, won't you?"
"I'll try."
"Of course, if she's still in a temper——Hulloa!"
The door had been softly opened. Alwynne, in her gay dressing-gown stood on the threshold. Her hair was knotted on the top of her head, and small damp curls strayed about her forehead. The folds of her wrapper, humped across her arm, with elaborate care, hinted at the towels and sponges concealed beneath. She looked, in spite of her bigness, like an extremely small child masquerading as a grown-up person.
Her eyes sought her aunt's appealingly. Roger, she ignored.
"Elsbeth," she said meekly, "please won't you come and tuck me up?"
She disappeared again.
Elsbeth laughed as she rose.
"I knew she wouldn't be content. Isn't she a dear, Roger, for all her little ways?"
"She's all right," said Roger, with immense conviction.
Alwynne was spending a contented morning. She had made her peace with Elsbeth over-night, and at the ensuing breakfast had been something of a feasted prodigal. Elsbeth had made no objection to her plans for the afternoon, but had suggested that, as Roger was coming to lunch, Alwynne might take him for a walk in the morning. He was sure to arrive by twelve. Alwynne, her head full of Clare's birthday and Clare's birthday present, acquiesced graciously. Indeed, she was herself anxious to talk to him again, to show him how completely she and Elsbeth were in accord, to prove to him, once and for all, though with kindly firmness, how uncalled for his comments had been. She believed that they had not parted the best of friends last night.... A pity—Roger could be such a dear when he chose.... Yesterday afternoon, for instance.... She found herself blushing hotly, as she recalled the details of yesterday afternoon.
Her thoughts were divided evenly between Roger and Clare as she sat at her work-table, running the last ribbon through the foamy laces and embroideries. She was proud of her work, and thrilled with pleasurable anticipations of Clare's comments. Clare would be pleased, wouldn't she?
Elsbeth, helping her to fold the dainty garment, and wondering wistfully if Alwynne would ever be found spending a tenth of the time and trouble on her own trousseau that she lavished on presents for people who did not appreciate them, was quite sure that Clare would be more than pleased. She could not cloud Alwynne's happy face; but she hoped to goodness that Roger would come soon.... She was sick of the word Clare.
Alwynne despatched her parcel by messenger-boy. She would not trust it to the post—yet it must arrive before she did. Clare hated to be confronted with you and your gift together. She hoped that Clare would not be in a mood when gifts were anathema. You never knew with Clare.
She paid the boy with a bright shilling and a slice of inviolate company cake, and was guiltily endeavouring so to squeeze and compress its girth, that Elsbeth would not notice the enlarged gap at tea-time, when Roger arrived.
She slid the tin hastily back into the cupboard.
"I won't shake hands," she said. "But it's stickiness, not ill-feeling."
Roger frowned aside the remark. He was looking excited, extremely pleased with himself, yet a trifle worried. He had the air of a man who had been priding himself on doing the right thing, and is suddenly stricken with doubt as to whether, after all, he had not made a mess of the business. He confronted her.
"I expect I've got it wrong," he remarked, with gloomy triumph. "I hate coloured stones myself."
"What are you talking about?" demanded Alwynne.
"Which is it, anyhow?"
"Which is what?"
"Which is your favourite stone?"
Alwynne gazed at him blankly.
"What on earth——?" she began.
Roger frowned anew.
"Don't argue with me. Which is your favourite stone?"
"I don't know—emeralds, I think."
He gave a sigh of relief, not entirely make-believe.
"Of course! I knew I was right. Elsbeth swore to pearls."
"Oh, I've always coveted her string. She's going to give it to me when I'm forty. I'd like to know what you're talking about, Roger, if you don't mind?"
"Why forty?"
"Years of discretion! You are tidy and never lose anythingonce you're forty. But why? Were you having a bet?"
"Not exactly." Roger searched his pockets. "Here, catch hold!"
He had produced a small package, gay with sealing-wax and coloured string. He handed it to her awkwardly, with immense detachment.
She opened it curiously.
In a little white kid case lay an emerald, round and shining like a safety signal. It was set in silver, quaintly carven.
Alwynne exclaimed.
"Oh, Roger! How gorgeous! How perfectly ripping! Where did you pick it up? Was it awfully expensive?"
Roger had been beaming in a gratified fashion, but at her question his jaw dropped.
"Well," he began. "Well—I——"
His expression struck her.
"Do you mind my asking? It's only because it is so exactly what I've always longed to give Clare. I'm saving. I'm going to, some day. Clare loves emeralds."
"Perhaps," said Roger, with elaborate irony, "you'd like to give her this? Don't mind me."
She glanced up at him, startled, puzzled.
"This?"
"It happens to be your engagement ring," he remarked offendedly.
Alwynne began to laugh, but a trifle uncertainly. To laugh without accompaniment or encouragement is uneasy work, and Roger's face was entirely expressionless. She felt that her laughter was sounding affected, and ceased abruptly, her foot tapping the floor, a glint of annoyance in her eye.
"What are you talking about?" she attacked him.
"Your engagement ring, wasn't it?" he said.
"Are you by any chance serious?"
"Perfectly." Roger's schoolboy awkwardness, due tohis encounter with an unexpectedly facetious jeweller, was wearing off.
"Myengagement ring?"
"We'll change it, of course," he said, with maddening politeness, "if you really prefer pearls."
"Presupposing an engagement?" Alwynne was on her high horse.
"To me. That was the idea, I think. Elsbeth is delighted."
Alwynne dismounted hastily again, though she kept a hand on the bridle.
"Roger—this is beyond a joke. What have you been saying to Elsbeth?"
"Why, my dear," he said gently, "very much what I told you yesterday afternoon."
Alwynne grew scarlet.
"Roger—we were in fun yesterday. We were joking. I forget what it was all about. There was nothing to tell Elsbeth."
"Yes, you do forget," he said.
"Yes. I have. I want to," she answered unsteadily. "You know you weren't serious. Why, you were laughing at me—you know you were."
"Do you never laugh when you're serious?"
"Never!" said Alwynne earnestly.
"Well, then, we're like the Cheshire cat and dog. But I laugh when I'm most amazingly serious sometimes, Alwynne. I was yesterday, and I think you knew it."
"I didn't," said Alwynne stubbornly. "We only just talked nonsense. All about Holt Meadows—you know it was nonsense."
"I didn't," said Roger, with equal stubbornness.
"You did," said Alwynne.
"I didn't," said Roger.
"Oh, of course, if you're going to lose your temper——" cried Alwynne.
Roger shrugged his shoulders. It was deadlock.
Alwynne looked at him. He was grave enough now.
"I didn't mean to be rude," she said unhappily.
"Didn't you?" He was all polite surprise.
"I expect I was——" she ventured.
"It all depends on what one's used to," he returned philosophically.
"Yes, I know I was. But you are so horrid to-day."
"Sorry," said Roger stiffly.
She turned to him impulsively.
"Roger—I've missed you awfully since I came back. It was quite absurd, when I'd got Clare all to myself. But I did. It was so nice seeing you. I was simply miserable yesterday, and then you turned up and were perfectly sweet. It cheered me up. And then you turned horrid. All the evening you were horrid. And now you're horrid, quarrelling and arguing. Why can't you be nice to me always?"
She was very close to him. Her hand was on the arm of his chair. Her skirts swished against his knee.
"Alwynne, you're too illogical for a school-marm. Haven't you been bullying me since I came on account of yesterday?"
"Roger," she said unsteadily, "don't tease me. I do so want to be friends with you."
He put his arms about her as she stood beside him, and looked up at her, with laughing, tender eyes.
"And I do so want to marry you. Why not, Miss Le Creevy?Let's be a comfortable couple."
She struggled away from him.
"No, Roger! No. No. I don't want to get married. Why aren't you content to be friends, as we were at Dene? Friendship's a lot. If I can see you very often, and write to you twice a week, and tell you everything—I should be awfully content. Wouldn't you?"
He looked at her with amusement.
"Your idea of friendship is pretty comprehensive. What's wrong with getting married, Alwynne?"
"Oh—I don't know."
"What's wrong with getting married, Alwynne?"
"How can I get married," cried Alwynne, in sudden exasperation, "when I'm not in love with you? You're silly sometimes, Roger."
"I suppose you're quite sure about it," he ventured cautiously.
"Oh, yes."
He looked utterly unconvinced.
"Why, I've hardly ever even dreamed about you," she remonstrated. "And I know all your faults."
"Oh, you do, do you? Out with the list."
"It would take too long." Alwynne dimpled.
"Love must be blind—is that the idea? Couldn't that be got over? One uses blinkers, you know, in double harness. I never dream, Alwynne, normally. Must I eat lobster salad every night?"
"There—you see!" Alwynne waved her hand complacently. "You're just as bad. You couldn't talk like that if——"
"If what?"
"Nothing!"
"If what?"
Alwynne looked at him.
"If what, Alwynne?" Roger's tone was a little stern.
She had taken a rose from the bowl at her elbow, and was slowly pulling off the petals. Her eyes were on her work.
He waited.
Her hands cupped the little pile of rose-leaves. She buried her face in them—watching him an instant, through her fingers.
"They are very sweet, Roger—are they from home—from Dene, I mean? Smell!"
She held out her hands to him.
He caught them in his own. The red petals fluttered noiselessly to the ground.
"If what, Alwynne?" he insisted.
"Oh, Roger! Do you really care—so much?"
"Yes, dear," he said soberly, "so much."
Alwynne looked up at him anxiously. She was very conscious of the big warm hands that held hers so firmly. She wished that he would not look so intent and grave; he made her feel frightened and unhappy. No—not frightened, exactly. There was something strong and serene about him, that upheld her, even when she opposed him; but certainly, unhappy. She realised suddenly how immensely she liked him—how entirely his nature satisfied hers.
"Oh, Roger!" she said wistfully. "I do like you. It isn't that I wouldn't like to marry you."
His face lit up.
"Would—liking awfully—do, Roger? Would it be fair? Must one be in love like a book?"
His face relaxed.
"I shall be content," he said. Then, impetuously, "Alwynne, I'll make you so happy. You shall do—nearly everything—you want to. Alwynne, if you only knew——"
She stopped him hurriedly, pulling away her hands.
"Don't, Roger! Don't! I didn't mean that. I only meant I'd like to. But I can't, of course. Of course, I can't. There's Clare."
"Clare!" His tone abolished Clare.
Alwynne flushed.
"Why do you sneer at Clare? You always sneer. I won't have it."
Her tone, in spite of her sudden anger, was unconsciously and comically proprietary. He repressed a smile as he answered her.
"All right, dear. But I wasn't sneering—not at Clare."
"At me, then?"
"Not sneering—chuckling. My dear, what has Clare—oh, yes, she's your dearest friend—but what has any friend,any woman, got to say to us two? We're going to get married."
"We're not. It's no good, Roger." Alwynne spoke slowly and emphatically, as one explaining things to a foreigner. "Why won't you understand? Clare wants me. We've been friends for years."
"Two years!" he interjected contemptuously.
"Well! You needn't talk! I've known you two months," she flashed out. "Do you think I'm going to desert Clare for you, even if—even if——" She stopped suddenly.
He beamed.
"You do. Don't you, darling?" he said.
"I don't. I don't. I don't want to. I mustn't. I don't know why I'm even talking to you like this. It's ridiculous. Of course, there can never be any one but Clare."
"Yes, it is ridiculous," he said impatiently.
She faced him angrily.
"Yes, very ridiculous, isn't it? Not to leave a person in the lurch—a person whom you love dearly, and who loves you. You can laugh. It's easy to laugh at women being friends. Men always do. They think it funny, to pretend women are always catty, and spiteful, and disloyal to each other."
"I've never said so or thought so," said Roger.
"You have! You do! Look at the way you've talked about Clare. That looks as if you thought me loyal and a good friend, doesn't it? What would Clare think of me—when I've let her be sure she can have me always—when I've promised her——"
"At nineteen! Miss Hartill's generous to allow you to sacrifice yourself——"
"It's no sacrifice! Can't you understand that I care for her—awfully. Why—I owe her everything. I was a silly, ignorant schoolgirl, and she took me, and taught me—pictures, books, everything. She made me understand. Ofcourse, I love my dear old Elsbeth—but Clare woke me up, Roger. You don't know how good she's been to me. I owe her—all my mind——"
"And your peace?" he asked significantly.
She softened.
"You know I'm grateful. I don't forget. But she's such a dreadfully lonely person. You've got The Dears, at least. She's queer. She can't help it. She doesn't make friends, though every one adores her. She's only got me. She wants me. How could I go when she wants me—when she's so good to me?"
"Is she?" he said. "Yesterday——"
"I was a fool yesterday," said Alwynne quickly. "Of course, I get on her nerves sometimes. But it's always my fault—honestly. You don't know what she's like, Roger, or you wouldn't say such things. I hate you to misunderstand her. How could I care for her so, if she were what you and Elsbeth think?"
He looked at her innocent, anxious face, and sighed.
"All right, my dear. Stick to your Clare. As long as you're happy, I suppose it's all right. Well, I'd better be off. Where's Elsbeth?"
"Be off? Where?" Alwynne looked startled.
"To pack my traps. I'm going home."
"Oh, Roger, you're not angry with me?"
"I am, rather," he said. "But you needn't mind me. You don't, do you?"
She looked at him piteously.
"Good-bye," he said. He shook hands perfunctorily and turned away.
"You're angry—oh, you are!" cried Alwynne, following him.
He laughed.
"You can't pay Clare without robbing Roger. Don't worry, Alwynne."
"Are you really going?" she said wistfully.
"Yes. Any message?"
"You'll write to me, won't you?"
"Good Lord, no!" said Roger, with immense decision.
Alwynne jumped. It was not the answer she had expected.
"But—but you must write to me," she stammered. "How shall I know about you, if you don't write to me?"
He was silent.
A new idea struck Alwynne.
"D'you mean—you don't want to hear from me either?" she asked incredulously.
"I think it would be better," he said.
"Oh, Roger—why? Aren't you going to be friends?"
Alwynne was looking alarmed.
"I wonder," he began, with elaborate patience, "if you could contrive, without straining yourself, to look at things from my point of view—for a moment—only a moment?"
"That's mean. You make me feel a beast."
"That won't hurt you——"
"Roger!"
"Alwynne?"
"You're being very rude."
"You kick at the privileges of friendship already? I knew you would. Let's drop it, Alwynne. You've got your good lady: you're quite satisfied. I've not got you: I'm not. So the best thing I can do is to go back to Dene and forget about you."
"If you can," said Alwynne's widening, indignant eyes.
"After all," he said meditatively, "you're a dear, but you aren't the only woman in the world, are you?"
"Oh, no," said Alwynne.
"I might go back to America," he said, "for a time. I've heaps of friends out there."
"Oh?" said Alwynne.
"Yes, I shall get over it," he concluded comfortably. "You mustn't worry, my child. Well, good-bye again—wish me good luck, Alwynne."
"Good luck," said Alwynne.
He took up his hat—looked at her—smiled a little, and walked to the door.
But before he could open it, he felt a touch on his arm.
"Roger," said a soft and wheedling voice, "wouldn't youliketo write to me? Now and then, Roger?"
He dissented with admirable gravity.
"All right! Don't then!" cried Alwynne wrathfully. She turned her back on him and sat down.
The luncheon-bell tinkled across the ensuing pause, like a peal of puckish laughter.
Elsbeth's voice, raised tactfully at the further end of the passage, warned them of her approach.
Said Alwynne over her shoulder—
"Anyhow, you must stay to lunch now, Elsbeth would be furious if you went. She'll say I've driven you away or something. Unless you want to get me into another row?"
She spoke ungraciously enough, for she disliked having to ask a favour of him at such a juncture; but she disliked even more the notion of atête-à-têtelunch with Elsbeth. Elsbeth, by right of aunthood, would ask questions, demand confession.... Elsbeth, she knew instinctively, would be on Roger's side.... She told herself that she did not mind being bullied by Roger, because, after all, it was Roger's affair; but she would not be otherwise interfered with.... Elsbeth had a way of putting you in the wrong.... She would rather not talk with Elsbeth until she had seen Clare.... Clare would fortify her.... If only Roger would keep Elsbeth occupied till she got away to Clare....
"You must stay, you know," she repeated uneasily.
"You made me forget about lunch," he said cheerfully. "Of course I must! You know, you're a terror, Alwynne. I never know which makes me hungrier, a football match or an argument with you. I'm ravenous."
Alwynne was speechless.
"Is no one coming in to lunch?" asked Elsbeth, entering. She looked quickly from one to the other. Alwynne was at the glass, tidying her hair, and Roger seemed cheerful.Elsbeth smiled a significant smile: her eyebrows were question-marks.
Roger shook his head, but not before Elsbeth had caught sight of the scattered rose and disarranged vases. She was instantly engaged in restoring order, and missed the movement.
Suddenly she exclaimed, and pounced on a small object lying on the floor, half hidden in petals.
"Oh! Oh, how lovely! What an exquisite ring! Why, Roger—why, Alwynne—look! I might have trodden on it. How careless of you both."
But she beamed on them with immense satisfaction, as she held out the emerald ring.
"It's not mine," said Alwynne icily.
"Nothing to do with me," Roger assured her.
Elsbeth looked bewildered.
"One of you must have dropped it," she began.
"No!" said Alwynne.
"Oh, no!" said Roger.
But there was a glimmer of fun in his eye, that enlightened Elsbeth, or she thought, at least, that it did.
"In my young days," she remarked severely, "young people didn't leave a valuable engagement ring lying about on the floor."
"A disengaged engagement ring," he corrected her sadly. "At least, it's disengaged at present."
"I think, Elsbeth," said Alwynne firmly, "that the lunch must be getting cold." And preceded them in all dignity to the dining-room.
Alwynne found the meal a trying one. Roger was talkative, and Elsbeth, though obviously puzzled, was too much occupied with him, to be critical of her niece. Alwynne was divided between gratitude to Roger for relieving the situation, and pique that he could be equal to so doing. A man in his position should be far too crushed by disappointment for social amenities. She would have been genuinely distressed, yet undeniably gratified, if his appetite hadfailed him; but she noticed that he was able to eat a hearty meal. He could laugh, too, with Elsbeth, and make ridiculous jokes, and draw Alwynne, silent and unwilling, into the conversation. He seemed to have no objection to catching her eye, though she found it difficult to meet his. He was a queer man.... She supposed he wasn't very much in love with her, really, that was the truth of it.... She found the idea depressing. She wondered if he were really going back to Dene at once, and was relieved to hear her aunt challenging his decision. Elsbeth was expostulating. She had plans for the next day ... there was a concert that evening.... Roger appeared to waver. Alwynne, contemptuous that he could be so easily turned, annoyed that Elsbeth should sway him where she herself had failed, was yet conscious of a feeling of relief. At least she should see him again, if only to quarrel with him.... She was due to supper with Clare as well as tea, though she had not told Elsbeth so.... It would be quite simple—she would run round to Clare at once, and spend a long afternoon, and get back for another peep at Roger in the evening.... Clare wouldn't mind....
She hesitated. Clare would be rather surprised if she didn't stay.... She had never been known to curtail a visit to Clare before.... But she would explain things to her.... Clare would be as sorry for Roger as she herself ... for, of course, she must tell Clare all about it.... She hoped Clare would not say she had been flirting.... But she must make her at least understand what a dear Roger was.... She should like Clare to appreciate Roger ... she was afraid she would never be able to make Roger appreciate Clare.... It was a great pity!... If it had not been for Roger's unlucky prejudice, she might have introduced them to each other, and it would have all been so jolly.... She would have loved to show Clare to Roger, if Clare had been in a good mood, and had worn her new peacock-coloured frock and had looked and been as adorable as she sometimes could be. They might have gone to-day—andnow Roger had spoiled everything.... But at least he was not going till to-morrow.... She would slip away at once while he and Elsbeth were talking—she would be back all the sooner....
She left the pair at their coffee, and hurried to her room to put on her new coat and skirt and her prettiest hat. It was Clare's birthday ... and Clare liked her to be fine.... She wondered, with a little skip of excitement, if Clare had got her parcel yet?
She was no sooner gone than Roger turned to Elsbeth, his laughing manner dropped from him like a mask.
"It's all off, Elsbeth," he said. "You were right. It's that woman. She's infatuated."
The pleasure died out of Elsbeth's face.
"I was afraid so," she said. "I saw something had happened. But you were so comical, I couldn't be sure."
"I didn't want an explanation just then——"
"Of course not," she interpolated hastily.
"But I think I'll go straight back to Dene. Have you a time-table?"
"Have you quarrelled badly?"
"Not exactly! Alwynne's rather annoyed with me, though."
"Annoyed? With you?"
"Well, you see," he explained, with a touch of amusement, "I think she rather wants to retain me as a tame cat——"
"Oh, but Alwynne's not like that," Elsbeth protested.
"Don't you think every woman is, if she gets the chance? She has to kow-tow to the Hartill woman, and it would be a relief to have some one to do the same to her—as well as an amusement. But she's had to understand that I won't be her friend's whipping-boy. I decline the post."
"Oh,—well, if you put it that way—but it's hardly fair to Alwynne. Of course, you're angry and disappointed——"
"I'm not!" he protested heatedly.
"Oh, but you are. Don't pretend you're not human. I don't blame you; I'm angry too. But you must be fair. Alwynne's motives are obvious enough. There's no cat-and-mouse business about it. She simply can't bear the idea of losing you."
"Yet she won't marry me."
"She would, if it weren't for Clare. Didn't you get that impression? Roger, if you really care, wait here a little longer. Stay with us. Let her have a chance of contrasting you with Clare Hartill."
"No, I won't," he said obstinately.
"You care more for your own dignity than for Alwynne, I think," said Elsbeth, in her lowest voice.
"Cousin Elsbeth, I care more for Alwynne than for anything else in the world. You know that. Also, though you'll call me a conceited ass, I believe I know your ewe-lamb ten thousand times better than you do. And I've simply got to sit tight for a bit. The less she sees of me at present, the more she'll think of me—in two senses. If I can make her miss me, it'll be a profitable exile. Oh, you dear, worried woman," he cried, laughing at her intent face, "do you think I want to go away from Alwynne? Nevertheless—where's the time-table?"
She rose and fetched it, and gave it him, without a word.
He ran his finger down the page.
"There's a four o'clock," he announced.
"If only I could do something," mused Elsbeth.
He smiled at her gratefully.
"You're a pretty staunch friend," he said. "What more can one ask?"
"Oh, but I ought to think of something," she said impatiently. "I sit here and let you go—I see two people's lives being spoiled—for the want of a——"
"What?"
"That's it! What? What can I do? Nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh, Roger, it's hard. It's very hard to see people you love unhappy, and not to be able to help them. It'sthe hardest thing I know. It would be such happiness to be allowed to bear things for them. But to watch.... It's harder for us than for men, you know—we're such born meddlers. We think it's our mission to put things to rights."
"When we've made a mess of 'em. I'm not sure that it isn't!"
"I've got to do something," she went on, without heeding him. "There you'll be at Dene, miserable—you will be miserable, Roger?" she interrupted herself, with a faint twinkle.
"Don't you worry," he reassured her. "It was bad enough when she left. She's managed to make every nook and corner of the place remind one of her. I don't know how she does it. Oh, it will be rotten, all right."
"Then there will be Alwynne here," she continued, "pretending she doesn't care. Working herself into a fever each time Clare is unkind to her—and pretending she doesn't care. Watching the posts for a letter from you—I know her—and pretending she doesn't care. Thoroughly miserable, and quite satisfied that I see nothing, as long as she laughs and jokes at meals. Oh, life's a comedy," cried Elsbeth. "You young folk have your troubles, and think we are too old and blind to see them; and we old folk have our troubles, and know you are too young and blind to see them. Yes, Roger—I'm having a grumble, and it's doing me good. One suffers vicariously as one gets older, but one suffers just the same. You children forget that."
"Do we?" he said gently. "I won't again—we won't, later on, Elsbeth—Alwynne and I."
"I want you two to be happy," she cried piteously. "I want it so. Oh, Roger, what can I do?"
"Nothing," he said.
She was silenced. But he was touched and a little amused to see how entirely she was unconvinced. He admired her persistence, and wondered if she had fought as vehemently for her own happiness, as she now fought for Alwynne's.Failure was instinct in her, in her faded colouring and eager, unassured manner. He thought it probable that the memory of failure was spurring her now.
He roused her gently.
"Elsbeth! It's past three o'clock. Will you come and see me off? I must go back to the White Horse for my bag first. Shall I call for you? I shan't be more than twenty minutes."
She nodded assent and promised to be ready.
Left to herself, she went to her room and dressed with mechanical care. Her mind tossed the while like an oarless boat in the sea of her restless thoughts.
What could she do? Wait—wait and hope, and watch things go wrong.... Roger was in love now, and prepared to be patient; but Roger was only a man.... He would get over it in time; and Alwynne, finally released from Clare's influence—that, too, surely, was only a question of time—would find out what she had lost.... She understood Alwynne well enough to know that if she cared, however unconsciously, for Roger, she would never be content to attach herself to any later comer.... Alwynne was terribly tenacious. So she, too, would waste and spoil her life; and for the sake of an infatuation, a piece of girlish quixotry.... It was criminal of Clare Hartill to allow it.... She supposed that the situation amused Clare; at least, if Alwynne's version had allowed her to guess it.... She wondered exactly how much Alwynne would tell Clare....
Suddenly and wonderfully she was illumined by an idea.
Roger, returning punctually with his bag, found Elsbeth awaiting him on the step, in calling costume, pulling and patting at a new pair of gloves with extraordinary energy. Her cheeks were bright; she had the air of frightened bravery of a cornered sheep.
"Come away quickly, Roger," she whispered, with a glance at the windows. "I don't want Alwynne to catch me. I can't come with you to the station, Roger. I'm going to see Clare Hartill."
Alwynne, for all her eagerness, took more than her usual breathless ten minutes in reaching Clare Hartill's flat. Underneath her pleasure at seeing Clare again ran a little current of uneasiness. There was so much to be told, not only in deference to the intimacy of their relationship, but in order to procure the proof that had never before seemed necessary, that Roger's, and incidentally Elsbeth's, view of that relationship was wrong.... Clare, of course, was reserved, undemonstrative, not, Alwynne was prepared to admit, so kindly or considerate a companion as—well, as Roger.... But why it should therefore follow that Roger loved her better, and was more worthy—preposterous word—of her own love, Alwynne could not see.... Clare Hartill cared for her, had told her so, had—had not as yet proved it, because there had been no need of proof.... Alwynne could love for two.... But to-day she felt only an aching desire that Clare should realise the importance of what she had just done; should reward her sacrifice with little softenings and intimacies, some such signs as she had shown her in the earlier days of their friendship, of affection and sympathy.... She did not ask much, she told herself; if Clare were only a little kind, she should not miss Roger. Even as she so decided, her cheek flushing at the idea of Clare's kindness, at the possibility of a return to their earlier relationship, she saw suddenly, with flashlight distinctness, how much, even then, she should miss Roger, how great her sacrifice would still be.... She saw, as in a vision, the man and woman drowning in waste seas, and she herself at rescue work with room for one and one only in the boat beside her.... She felt herself torn by theagony of choice, knowing the while, that a year ago it had not been so; that a year ago she would have outstretched arms for Clare alone; that even now, Elsbeth, The Dears, all alike might drown in that dream sea, so long as Clare were saved.... She acknowledged, she exulted in the narrowness of her affection.... Clare before the world! But Clare before Roger? Clare safe and Roger drowning? She chuckled as it occurred to her that Roger would certainly be able to swim.... Yes, he would swim comfortably alongside and spare her the fantastic trouble of a choice.... Blessed old Roger!
As she passed the little kiosk at the corner of Friar's Lane, where a red-haired girl sat behind branches of white and mauve lilac, and high-piled mounds of violets, she hesitated and turned back. It was a breaking of unwritten rules, and Clare would give her no thanks, but to-day at least she would not scold.... She would say nothing, but how big her dear eyes would grow at sight of that armful of scented colour! She bought lavishly, and forgot to stay for change, for she was picturing her own arrival as she hurried on: the open door; the pell-mell of flowers and sunlight; Clare's smile; Clare's kiss. In spite of moods Clare could not do without her! She tore up the stairs and pealed the bell, with never another thought of Roger.
Clare was at her writing-table and had but a bare nod for Alwynne, as she stood in the doorway, flushed, smiling, expectant. The girl was accustomed to finding her preoccupied; there was a time, indeed, when there had been subtle flattery in the cavalier welcome, when the lack of ceremony had seemed but a proof of intimacy, and she would bide her time happily enough, exploring book-shelves, darning stockings, tiptoeing from parlour to pantry to refill vases and valet neglected plants, or, curled in the big arm-chair, would sketch upon imaginary canvases Clare's profile, dark against the sun-filled window, or stare half-hypnotised, at the twinkling diamond on her finger. But to-day, for the first time, Clare's reception of her jarred.
She sat down quietly, the flowers in a heap at her feet, her excitement subsiding and leaving her jaded and sorehearted. She felt herself disregarded, reduced to the level of an importunate schoolgirl.... She wondered how much longer Clare intended to write, and told herself, with a little, petulant shrug, that for two pins she would surprise Clare, wrench away her pen, take her by the shoulders and anger her into attention. Roger was right.... One could be too meek.... She rose with a little quiver of excitement, her irrepressible phantasy limning with lightning speed an imaginary Clare—a Clare beleaguered, with barriers down, a Clare with wide maternal arms, enclosing, comforting, sufficing....
The real Clare shifted in her seat and Alwynne sank back again. No, that was not the way to take Clare.... One must be patient, only patient, like Roger.... Clare would give all one needed, that was sure, but in her own time, her own way.... One must be patient....
She loosed her coat.... How close the room was.... She would have liked to fling open the window, but Clare always protested.... She heard Elsbeth's voice: "Fresh air? Her idea of fresh air is an electric fan." ... Queer, how those two jarred! But Elsbeth was not just....
Her head throbbed. Listlessly she picked up a spray of lilac and crushed it against her face. It was deliciously cool.... She supposed that the lilacs were out by now at Dene....
Tic, tac! Tic, tac! The tick of the clock would not keep time with the scratch of Clare's pen.... How stupid! Stupid, stu—pid, stu—pid, stu——
"Clare!" she cried desperately, "won't you even talk to me?"
Clare wrote on for a moment as if she had not heard her, finished her letter, blotted it, stamped and addressed the cover and wiped her pen deliberately; then she rose, smiling a little. She had been perfectly conscious of Alwynne's unrest.
"What is it?" she said. Alwynne flushed and gathered up her flowers.
"It's your birthday," she apologised. "Look, Clare, aren't they darlings? I know you hate the school fusses, but your own birthday is important. Must you go on writing? It ought to be a holiday. May I get vases? Clare, I've such heaps to tell you, heaps and heaps, only I can't if you stand and look at me from such a long way off. Won't you sit down and smell your lilacs and let me talk to you comfortably?"
With enormous daring she put her arm round Clare and drew her on to the sofa. Clare made no resistance, but she sat stiffly, unsupported, still smiling, her eyes glittering oddly. But the acquiescence was enough for Alwynne and she slid to the ground and sat there sorting her flowers, her face level with Clare's knee, radiant and fearless again.
"I wonder what you will say? It's about Roger."
Clare raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, Clare, don't you know? I wrote such a lot about him from Dene."
"I am to remember every detail of your epistles?"
Alwynne looked up quaintly—
"I suppose there is a good deal to wade through. There always seems so much to say to you. Do you really mind?"
"You remind me that I've letters to finish."
Alwynne looked at the clock in sudden alarm.
"Am I awfully early? You did expect me to tea?"
"And you're never on the late side, are you?" Clare was still smiling, but her tone stung.
Alwynne got up quickly.
"I'm very sorry. Don't bother about me. I'll arrange these things while you finish. I didn't know you were really busy."
Clare put out her hand to the table behind her.
"I'm not busy. It seems one mayn't tease you since you've stayed at Dene."
Alwynne's eyes flashed.
"That's not fair. It's only that—that sometimes now you tease with needles—you used to tease with straws."
"So I had better not tease at all?"
"You know I don't mean that."
Clare lifted an opened parcel from the table. Alwynne recognised it and beamed. So Clare was pleased!
"If I tease with needles," she smoothed the paper and began to straighten the little heap of knotted string, "it's because you annoy me so often. Why did you send me this, Alwynne?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"It was your birthday."
"I hate birthdays."
"I know." She spoke flatly, a lump in her throat. She might have known and saved herself her trouble and her pleasure.... She thought of the weeks of careful work and her delight in it; of the little sacrifices; the early rising; the walks with Roger curtailed and foregone.... Everybody had admired it, even Elsbeth had been sure that Clare would be charmed.... But Clare was angry.... Perhaps it was only that Clare did not understand.... She roused herself.
"Clare, it's different. Don't you remember?"
Clare gave no sign. She had disentangled the string and was retying it with elaborate care. Alwynne spoke with eyes fixed upon the dexterous fingers—
"You challenged me, don't you remember, Clare? When Marion showed us the things she was making for her sister's trousseau? And you said, would I ever have the patience, let alone my clumsy fingers? And I said I could, and you said you would wear all I made. And you did laugh at me so. So I thought I'd surprise you, and Elsbeth taught me the pillow-lace, and I was frightfully careful. It's taken months and months, and you love lace, and oh, Clare! I thought you would be a little bit pleased."
Her lip quivered; she was very childlike in her eagerness and disappointment.
"Did you think I should wear it?"
Alwynne dimpled.
"It's your size, Clare. Wouldn't you just try it?"
Clare looked at her inscrutably.
"You've taken great pains," she said. "I've been pleased to see it. But you've shown it to me and I've told you that you've learned to work well, so it has fulfilled its purpose, hasn't it? And now you'd better take it back with you. I'm sure you will be able to use it."
She held out the neatly fastened package.
Alwynne's face hardened. She put her hands behind her back.
"I shall do nothing of the kind," she said.
Clare did not seem ruffled.
"Of course you will. And you'll look very pretty in it." She smiled amiably.
But Alwynne's face did not relax.
"I won't take it back. I gave it to you. I made it to give you pleasure. If you don't want it, burn it, give it to your maid, throw it away. Do you think I care what becomes of it? But I won't take it back. That is an insult. You say that to hurt me."
"You'll take it back because I wish you to."
"I won't. You shouldn't wish me to."
"You know I dislike presents."
"I never labelled it a present in my mind. You talk as if we were strangers."
"Perhaps, then," murmured Clare, still smiling, "I dislike the hint that you consider my wardrobe inadequate."
Alwynne caught her breath. For the last ten minutes she had been growing angry, not in her usual summer-tempest fashion, but with a slow, cold anger that was pain. She felt Clare's attitude an indelicacy—the discussion a degradation. She sickened at its pettiness. She seemed to be defending, not herself, but some shrinking, weaponless creature, from attack and outrage.... The fight had been sudden, desperate; but at Clare's last sentence she knewherself vanquished, knew that the first love of her life had been most mortally wounded.
She turned blindly. She had no tears, no regret: her sensations were purely physical. She was numbed, breathless, choking, conscious only of an overpowering desire for fresh air, for escape into the open. But first she must say good-bye, head erect, betraying nothing ... say good-bye to the dark figure that was no longer Clare.... A sentence from a child's book danced through her mind in endless repetition,They rubbed her eyes with the ointment, and she saw it was only a stock.Of course! And now she must go away quickly.... She should choke if she could not get into the air....
She heard her own voice, flat and tiny—
"Have you finished with me? May I go now?"
Clare's laugh was quite unforced.
"You're not to go yet!"
"Yes. Yes—I think so. May I go now, please?"
She had retreated to the door and clung to the handle looking back with blank eyes.
"But, you foolish child, you've had no tea. Why are you running away? Are you going to spoil my afternoon?"
She lied blunderingly, mad to escape.
"But I told you I couldn't stay long. Because—because of Elsbeth. She's to meet me. I only ran up for a minute. Really, I have to go." She made a tremendous effort: "I—I can come back later."
Clare shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh, very well. Will you come to supper?"
Alwynne forced a smile.
"Yes." She crossed the threshold, Clare watching from the doorway.
"I shall wait for you, we'll have a lazy evening. Supper at eight."
There was no answer. Alwynne was stumbling down into the darkness of the stairs and did not seem to hear.Clare turned back into her flat, hesitated uneasily, and came out again. She leaned far over the balustrade, peering down.
"Alwynne!" she cried. "Alwynne! Wait a moment, Alwynne!"
But Alwynne was gone, gone beyond recall.