“I’d better telephone now,” said Mrs. Willoughby. “There’s only one
thing you haven’t thought of, Crip. Obviously David and I can’t continue
our raids. How’s that to be explained? Nell will want to know why.”
Crispin removed his pipe and regarded its bowl.
“I know,” he said. “We’ll say Aunt Millicent’s ill and burst off to Como
at once. A couple of weeks in Italy’ll suit me down to the ground.”
“And me,” said Madge. “Give me the home of romance.”
“But not its occupant?”
“No—unless she can show a good title.”
Husband and wife smiled.
Arrived at the door, Madge paused.
“I suppose you must go out,” she said wistfully.
“I must, my darling. This is a one man show. Besides, I think my job is
to get hold of Nell. You don’t want her blowing in to spoke your wheel.”
“My word, no,” said Mrs. Willoughby.
“I’ll say you’re tired and take her to see the play.”
“Right.”
The door closed.
For a moment or two Crispin continued to brush the Sealyham. Then he
rose to his feet and picked up the letter on which he had been sitting.
He re-read it carefully.
_You ask me why I never turned up this morning. I can see no
earthly reason why you shouldn’t know. Convention has offered me
fifty, but they’re none of them sound. If either of us was a
fool, if the understanding which you and Madge share was less
perfect, finally, if you were almost any sort of man but the
sort of man you are, it would be different. As it is. . . ._
_Crispin, my dear, you can add a scalp to your belt. I don’t
suppose for a second that you even know you’ve got a belt; but
you have, and—it’s pretty full. Any way, mine’s the
latest. . . . And that’s the inconvenient truth._
_As for David, I’m dreadfully sorry, because he’s one of the
best. I’m afraid he’s silly enough to worship me, and now I’m
letting him down. Heavens, how I’m tearing things up! But there
you are. . . ._
_You need have no fear. I don’t propose to assault you by word
or deed. I’m not going to throw my arms round your neck or tell
you I love you better than anything on earth._ But my impulse is
to do both. _So now you see, dear, why I never turned up this
morning._
_Nell._
* * * * *
The royal box at the Imperial was available. So, incidentally, were more
than half the stalls. The occasion, however, was demanding privacy.
So soon as the curtain rose, Crispin opened the door and ushered Eleanor
into the withdrawing-room.
“Crispin, why have you done this? You know what I said.”
Standing still by the table, the girl made a pathetically beautiful
picture. Her simple white frock, her short hair, her little folded
hands, her high colour, the piteous droop of her lips—above all, the
tense dog-like devotion of her big brown eyes lent her the air of a
child that has pleaded guilty and come to judgment.
Willoughby steeled his heart.
“One can say things,” he said, “which it isn’t easy to write. Sit down,
Nell.”
He flung himself into a chair and crossed his legs. Then he took out a
cigar and lighted it carefully.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “your letter was rather a godsend.”
Miss Cloke started.
“A—a godsend?” she stammered.
“A godsend,” said Crispin comfortably. “But let that pass. I’ll tell you
why presently. To tell you the truth, I was always a little afraid of
something like this.” Eleanor opened her mouth, shut it, hesitated and
then sat down. “I couldn’t very well say so, but when Madge first
suggested that we should hunt in pairs I thought it was playing with
fire. You see, as you hint in your letter, I—well, I’ve had some, Nell.
It’s a difficult thing to say, but . . .”
The sentence slid into an apologetic snigger.
“You’re rather—rather popular?” said Eleanor, using an odd, strained
tone.
“Exactly. Heaven knows why, but you wouldn’t believe the number of, er,
applications I’ve had in the last five years.”
Eleanor’s eyes flashed.
“What fools women are,” she said.
“And men,” said Crispin, with a generous air. “And men—often enough. In
the present case, I wasn’t afraid for myself because, though you’re
awfully attractive, Nell, I’m—I’m funny like that.” He laughed
self-consciously, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. “You know, I’ve
got one simply appalling fault.”
“One—yes?”
“Well, I’m frightfully critical—particular.”
There was a frozen silence.