“But what will you do, Gill? Of course, I should pay you a rent. The
house and furniture’s yours, and——”
“I shall live at the Club. As to rent—considering that you’ll be better
than any caretaker, I shall be up on the deal.”
Katharine digested this.
“I could only consent,” she said, “on the understanding that, if ever
you changed your mind, you let me know. And, of course, you’ld keep a
key and use it whenever you liked.”
“My darling,” said Giles, rising, “I look forward to dining at this
table at least once a week. Of course, I shan’t come unasked. That would
be molestation. Your trustee would be most rude. But if I behave
myself. . . . Possibly, some afternoon when you were out, you might
arrange for me to have a bath here. On my birthday, for instance. It’ld
tickle me to death.”
Katharine flung him a bewitching smile.
“If,” she said, “you don’t tell anyone, you shall use my sponge.”
“Kate,” said her husband, “I perceive that we are off. This separation
stunt is going to work wonders.”
He was perfectly right.
Galbraith Forsyth, solicitor, was an honest man. Also he knew his world
and could tell the sheep from the goats. He could be stern, and he could
be most gentle. To those whom he trusted, who trusted him, he gave a
service which money cannot buy. His judgment alone was invaluable. The
sheep liked him, immensely. The goats hated him. But both respected him
with a whole heart. If he had any pet lambs, the Festivals were among
them.
He received the two pleasedly, bade them sit down, and drew the lady’s
attention to a bunch of daffodils.
“Posies are seldom seen in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. But when I knew you
were coming, I felt that something must be done. I didn’t want you to
feel lonely.”
“Now, isn’t that charming?” said Giles. “If I could say things like
that, we shouldn’t be here to-day.”
Forsyth looked at him sharply.
“You see, Mr. Forsyth,” said Katharine, “we’ve made a hopeless mistake.
We thought we’ld be happy, though married: and we were wrong. We can’t
hit it off. We’ve tried like blazes, but it’s not the slightest good. In
fact, the only thing we’ve agreed about for something like three months
is that the sooner we part, the better for Giles and me.”
“D’you mean this?” said Forsyth. “Or are you—er—pulling my leg?”
“We mean it all right,” said Giles. “It sounds like a comic dream, but
it’s the grisly truth. For no apparent reason, Katharine annoys me. For
no apparent reason, I get her goat. If we started to discuss those
flowerlets, in five minutes we should be slinging books at each other.
She’s witty, you know, and I’m a bit of a wag. We’ve always fenced, for
fun—always. But now we can’t stop, and—the buttons are off the foils.”
“He’s perfectly right,” said Katharine. “I’m ashamed to say it, but we
lead a cat and dog life. And now we’re both agreed that it isn’t good
enough. Don’t suggest change, because we’ve tried that. He went away for
a week. The night he came back I threw a glass at him.”
“An empty one,” said Giles. “Missed me by yards. But it’s the—the
principle.”
“Exactly,” said Katharine. “Besides, the glass was a good one, and now
it leaks.”
Forsyth, who felt the sting beneath the banter, was genuinely dismayed.
He smiled politely.
“It seems a pity,” he said. “When I say that, I’m putting it very low. A
pity. You mustn’t be impatient, because, though I’m the keeper of your
legal conscience, at heart I’m an ordinary man—with eyes in his head. I
think you’re playing with fire. Life’s very uncertain, you know. If
anything happened after you’d gone apart—the other would grieve, I’m
afraid . . . have something to remember they’ld give a lot to forget
. . . grudge the bit of their life they’d deliberately sworn away. . . .
One never thinks of Remorse, until it touches you on the shoulder. I
don’t suppose I should, only I’ve seen it . . . at work.”
There was a long silence.