“Perhaps it’s as well,” he muttered. “You see. . . . Nell, my dear, it’s
your walk.”
“My _what_?” shrieked Eleanor.
“Your walk—carriage, my dear. In repose you’re immense. Standing by the
table just now, you were simply it. But when you move—I don’t know what
it is, but you, er, you don’t do yourself justice. You’re inclined to
. . . to . . .”
“Waddle?” said Eleanor mercilessly.
“Not exactly waddle, but. . . . Well, perhaps you would call it
‘waddling.’ But it’s nothing to write home about. The trouble is I’m
afraid it’s occurred to David.”
“What has? My wal—waddle?”
“Your walk. I may be wrong, but. . . . Nell, it’s your only blemish,
but, as it happens, the one thing David’s noticed ever since I’ve known
him was the way a woman walked. When you two said you were engaged, you
could have knocked me down. But apparently——”
“He happens,” said Eleanor icily, “to have affirmed on more than one
occasion that I had the bearing of a queen.”
Crispin shrugged his shoulders.
“Love is blind,” he said shortly. “But of course I may be wrong. Still,
if it isn’t that, I don’t know what it is. If you wash that out, you’re
practically flawless,” and with that he leaned back, thrust his cigar
between his lips and smoked luxuriously.
“What do you mean,” said Eleanor “‘—if it isn’t that’?”
Crispin started. Then he rose to his feet and began to pace the room
nervously.
Eleanor Cloke watched him with smouldering eyes.
After two or three turns he stopped in front of her chair.
“I said your note was a godsend. Well, so in a way it is. Nell, if you
value your happiness, you’d better give David up.”
The girl stared.
“Thanks very much—why? Are you afraid my waddle will get on his
nerves?”
“I’m afraid,” said Crispin, “it has.” Eleanor smothered an exclamation.
“At least, if it hasn’t,” he added, “then something else has. Nell, I’m
grieved to tell you, but he’s looking elsewhere.”
“Who to?”
Crispin shook his head.
“I’ve not the faintest idea. But I’m pretty sure he’s cooling. Now he’s
not the man to cool off unless somewhere around there’s another brighter
fire. Of course, we—I may be wrong.”
“Madge thinks so?”
Crispin threw away his cigar, picked up a chair and sat himself down
with the table between himself and Eleanor Cloke.
“Look here,” he said, “if you want to be happy, Nell, you’ll take my
advice. _Back out before it’s too late._ If you and he marry, you’re
done. Madge and I’ve always been afraid that you wouldn’t be able to
hold him. Well, it looks as though we were right. . . . You’re awfully
sweet, Nell, and David’s one of the best. He’ld never go looking for
trouble—he’s not that sort. But he’s an attractive man, and there are
plenty of girls. Only a strong personality—a charm that fills up his
life—will ever hold David Herrick.”
“I see,” said Eleanor slowly, nodding her head. “And my charm’s not
strong enough?”
“I’m frightfully sorry, Nell, but I’m afraid it isn’t. The mercy is that
you haven’t burned your boats.”
There was a long silence.
From behind the closed door a sudden swell of applause came to their
ears, subduing for an instant the faint roar and jingle of the traffic,
the toots of innumerable horns, and even the staccato clamour of a
fire-engine’s tongue. Then the demonstration died down, leaving the
distant racket to snarl and grumble over the bone of silence as a beast
frets jealously over the consumption of its prey.