"And isn't this the bag that got the awful bang that time we raised a
row about it when we landed in New York? A silver box stove in, or
something of that sort?"
She succeeded in smiling, though she knew the smile was ghastly. "It's
still stove in."
"Gad, think of my remembering that!"
He meant the remark to be easy, if not precisely jocose; but the
trivial, intimate details wrung a cry from her: "Oh, Chip, go away! I
can't stand any more--_now_."
He pressed his advantage, standing over her, the black bag still in his
hands, as she cowered in the corner, pulling down her veil. "'Now'!
'Now'! Do you mean that you'll see me--later--when we're in London?"
The veil hid her face, but she pressed her clasped hands against her
lips as if to keep back all words.
"Do you mean that, Edith?" he insisted.
Her breath came in little sobs. She spoke as if the words forced
themselves out in spite of her efforts to repress them: "I'm--I'm
staying at the Ritz. I shall be there for--for some days--till--till--he
sends for me."
"Good. I'm at the Piccadilly. I shall come to-morrow at eleven."
Before she could withdraw her implied permission he was in the corridor
on the way to his own compartment; but at Euston he was beside her door,
ready to help her down. Amid the noise and bustle of finding her luggage
and having it put on a taxi-cab, there was no opportunity for her to
speak. He took care, besides, that there should be none. She was
actually seated in the vehicle before she was able to say to him, as he
stood at the open window to ask if she had everything she required:
"Oh, Chip, about to-morrow--"
"At eleven," he said, hastily. "I make it eleven because if it's fine we
might run down and have the day at Maidenhead."
She caught at a straw. If she couldn't shelve him, a day in the country,
in the open air, would be less dangerous than one in London. And perhaps
in the end she might shelve him. At any rate, she could temporize.
"I've never been at Maidenhead."
"And lunch at Skindle's isn't at all bad."
"I've never been at Skindle's."
"And after lunch we'll go out on the river--the Clieveden woods, you
know--and all that."
"I've never seen the Clieveden woods."
"Then that's settled. At eleven. All right, driver; go on."
But she stretched her hands toward him. "Oh, Chip, don't come! I'm
afraid. What's the good? Since we've burned our bridges--"
He had just time to say: "Even without bridges, there are wings. At
eleven, then. All right, driver; go on. The Ritz Hotel."
V