QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
By the first of January it became plain that there was not very much
left of Colonel Mallett's fortune, less of his business reputation, and
even less of his wife's health. But she was now able to travel, and
toward the middle of the month she sailed with Naïda and one maid for
Naples, leaving her son to gather up and straighten out what little of
value still remained in the wreckage of the house of Mallett. What he
cared most about was to straighten out his father's personal reputation;
and this was possible only as far as it concerned Colonel Mallett's
individual honesty. But the rehabilitation was accomplished at the
expense of his father's reputation for business intelligence; and New
York never really excuses such things.
Not much remained after the amounts due every creditor had been checked
up and provided for; and it took practically all Duane had, almost all
Naïda had, and also the sacrifice of the town house and country villa to
properly protect those who had suffered. Part of his mother's estate
remained intact, enough to permit her and her daughter to live by
practising those inconsequential economies, the necessity for which
fills Europe with about the only sort of Americans cultivated foreigners
can tolerate, and for which predatory Europeans have no use whatever.
As for Duane, matters were now in such shape that he found it possible
to rent a studio with adjoining bath and bedroom--an installation which,
at one time, was more than he expected to be able to afford.
The loss of that luxury, which custom had made a necessity, filled his
daily life full of trifling annoyances and surprises which were often
unpleasant and sometimes humorous; but the new and arid order of things
kept him so busy that he had little time for the apathy, bitterness, or
self-commiseration which, in linked sequence, usually follow sudden
disaster.
Sooner or later it was inevitable that he must feel more keenly the
death of a father who, until in the shadow of impending disaster, had
never offered him a very close intimacy. Their relations had been merely
warm and pleasant--an easy camaraderie between friends--neither
questioned the other's rights to reticence and privacy. Their mutual
silence concerning business pursuits was instinctive; neither father nor
son understood the other's affairs, nor were they interested except in
the success of a good comrade.
It was inevitable that, in years to come, the realisation of his loss
would become keener and deeper; but now, in the reaction from shock, and
in the anxiety and stress and dire necessity for activity, only the
surface sorrow was understood--the pity of it, the distressing
circumstances surrounding the death of a good father, a good friend, and
a personally upright man.
The funeral was private; only the immediate family attended. Duane had
written to Geraldine, Kathleen, and Scott not to come, and he had also
asked if he might not go to them when the chance arrived.
And now the chance had come at last, in the dead of winter; but the
prospect of escape to Geraldine brightened the whole world for him and
gilded the snowy streets of the city with that magic radiance no
flaming planet ever cast.
He had already shipped a crate of canvases to Roya-Neh; his trunk had
gone, and now, checking with an amused shrug a natural impulse to hail a
cab, he swung his suit-case and himself aboard a car, bound for the
Patroons Club, where he meant to lunch before taking the train for
Roya-Neh.
He had not been to the club since the catastrophe and his father's
death, and he was very serious and sombre and slightly embarrassed when
he entered.
A servant took his coat and suit-case with marked but subdued respect.
Men whom he knew and some men whom he scarcely knew at all made it a
point to speak to him or bow to him with a cordiality too pointed not to
affect him, because in it he recognised the acceptance of what he had
fought for--the verdict that publicly exonerated his father from
anything worse than a bad but honest mistake.
For a second or two he stood in the great marble rotunda looking around
him. In that club familiar figures were lacking--men whose social and
financial position only a few months before seemed impregnable, men who
had gone down in ruin, one or two who had perished by their own hand,
several whose physical and financial stamina had been shattered at the
same terrible moment. Some were ill, some dead, some had resigned,
others had been forced to write their resignations--such men as Dysart
for example, and James Skelton, now in prison, unable to furnish bail.
But the Patroons was a club of men above the average; a number among
them even belonged to the Pyramid; and the financial disasters of that
summer and winter had spared no club in the five boroughs and no
membership list had been immune from the sinister consequences of a
crash that had resounded from ocean to ocean and had set humble and
great scurrying to cover in every Bourse of the civilised world.
* * * * *
As he entered the dining-room and passed to his usual table, he caught
sight of Delancy Grandcourt lunching alone at the table directly behind
him.
"Hello, Delancy," he said; "shall we join forces?"
"I'd be glad to; it's very kind of you, Duane," replied Grandcourt,
showing his pleasure at the proposal in the direct honesty of his
response. Few men considered it worth while to cultivate Grandcourt. To
lunch with him was a bore; a tête-à-tête with him assumed the
proportions of a visitation; his slowness and stupidity had become
proverbial in that club; and yet almost the only foundation for it had
been Dysart's attitude toward him; and men's estimate of him was the
more illogical because few men really cared for Dysart's opinions. But
Dysart had introduced him, elected him, and somehow had contrived to
make the public accept his half-sneering measure of Grandcourt as
Grandcourt's true stature. And the man, being shy, reticent, slow to
anger, slower still to take his own part, was tolerated and
good-humouredly avoided when decently possible. So much for the average
man's judgment of an average man.
Seated opposite to Duane, Grandcourt expressed his pleasure at seeing
him with a simplicity that touched the other. Then, in perfectly good
taste, but with great diffidence, he spoke of Duane's bereavement.
For a little while they asked and answered those amiably formal
questions convention requires under similar circumstances; then Duane
spoke of Dysart gravely, because new rumours were rife concerning him,
even a veiled hint of possible indictment and arrest.
"I hope not," said Grandcourt, his heavy features becoming troubled; "he
is a broken man, and no court and jury can punish him more severely than
he has been punished. Nor do I know what they could get out of him. He
has nothing left; everything he possessed has been turned over. He sits
all day in a house that is no longer his, doing nothing, hoping nothing,
hearing nothing, except the childish babble of his old father or the
voices from the hall below, where his servants are fighting off
reporters and cranks and people with grievances. Oh, I tell you, Duane,
it's pitiable, all right!"
"There was a rumour yesterday of his suicide," said Duane in a low
voice. "I did not credit it."
Grandcourt shook his head: "He never would do that. He totally lacks
whatever you call it--cowardice or courage--to do that. It is not like
Dysart; it is not in him to do it. He never will, never could. I know
him, Duane."
Duane nodded.
Grandcourt spoke again: "He cares for few things; life is one of them.
His father, his social position, his harmless--success with women--"
Grandcourt hesitated, caught Duane's eye. Both men's features became
expressionless.
Duane said: "I had an exceedingly nice note from Rosalie the other day.
She has bought one of those double-deck apartments--but I fancy you know
about it."
"Yes," said Grandcourt, turning red. "She was good enough to ask my
opinion." He added with a laugh: "I shouldn't think anybody would want
my opinion after the way I've smashed my own affairs."
Duane smiled, too. "I've heard," he said, "that yours was the decentest
smash of the season. What is that scriptural business about--about a man
who lays down his fortune for a friend?"
"His _life_," corrected Grandcourt, very red, "but please don't confound
what I did with anything of importance to anybody." He lighted a cigar
from the burning match offered by Duane, very much embarrassed for a
moment, then suddenly brightened up:
"I'm in business now," he observed, with a glance at the other, partly
timid, partly of pride. "My father was thoroughly disgusted with me--and
nobody blames him--so he bought me a seat and, Duane, do you know that I
am doing rather well, considering that nobody is doing anything at all."
Duane laughed heartily, but his mirth did not hurt Grandcourt, who sat
smiling and enjoying his cigar, and looking with confidence into a face
that was so frankly and unusually friendly.
"You know I always admired you, Duane--even in the days when you never
bothered your head about me," he added naïvely. "Do you remember at
school the caricature you drew of me--all hands and feet and face, and
absolutely no body? I've got that yet; and I'm very proud to have it
when I hear people speak of your artistic success. Some day, if I ever
have any money again, I'll ask you to paint a better portrait of me, if
you have time."
They laughed again over this mild pleasantry; a cordial understanding
was developing between them, which meant much to Grandcourt, for he was
a lonely man and his shyness had always deprived him of what he most
cared for--what really might have been his only resource--the friendship
of other men.
For some time, while they were talking, Duane had noticed out of the
corner of his eye another man at a neighbouring table--a thin, pop-eyed,
hollow-chested, unhealthy young fellow, who, at intervals, stared
insolently at Grandcourt, and once or twice contrived to knock over his
glass of whiskey while reaching unsteadily for a fresh cigarette.
The man was Stuyvesant Quest, drunk as usual, and evidently in an
unpleasant mood.
Grandcourt's back was toward him; Duane paid him no particular
attention, though at moments he noticed him scowling in their direction
and seemed to hear him fussing and muttering over his whiskey and soda,
which, with cigarettes, comprised his luncheon.
"I wish I were going up to Roya-Neh with you," repeated Grandcourt. "I
had a bully time up there--everybody was unusually nice to me, and I had
a fine time."
"I know they'll ask you up whenever you can get away," said Duane.
"Geraldine Seagrave likes you immensely."
"Does she?" exclaimed Grandcourt, blushing. "I'd rather believe that
than almost anything! She was very, very kind to me, I can tell you; and
Lord knows why, because I've nothing intellectual to offer anybody, and
I certainly am not pretty!"
Duane, very much amused, looked at his watch.
"When does your train leave?" asked Grandcourt.
"I've an hour yet."
"Come up to my room and smoke. I've better whiskey than we dispense down
here. I'm living at the club, you know. They haven't yet got over my
fiasco at home and I can't stand their joshing."
Neither of the men noticed that a third man followed them, stumbling up
the stairs as they took the elevator. Duane was seated in an easy chair
by the fire, Grandcourt in another, the decanter stood on a low table
between them, when, without formality, the door opened and young Quest
appeared on the threshold, white, self-assertive, and aggressively at
his ease:
"If you fellows don't mind, I'll butt in a moment," he said. "How are
you, Mallett? How are you?" giving Grandcourt an impertinent look; and
added: "Do you, by any chance, expect your friend Dysart in here this
afternoon?"
"Dysart is no longer a member of this club," said Grandcourt quietly.
"I've told you that a dozen times."
"All right, I'll ask you two dozen times more, if I choose," retorted
Quest. "Why not?" And he gave him an ugly stare.
The man was just drunk enough to be quarrelsome. Duane paid him no
further attention; Grandcourt asked him very civilly if he could do
anything for him.
"Sure," sneered Quest. "You can tell Dysart that if I ever come across
him I'll shoot him on sight! Tell him that and be damned!"
"I've already told him that," said Grandcourt with a shrug of contempt.
The weak, vicious face of the other reddened:
"What do you mean by taking that tone with me?" he demanded loudly. "Do
you think I won't make good?" He fumbled around in his clothing for a
moment and presently jerked a pistol free--one of the automatic kind
with rubber butt and blued barrel.
"Unless you are drunker than I've ever seen you," said Grandcourt,
"you'll put up that pistol before I do."
Quest cursed him steadily for a minute: "Do you think I haven't got the
nerve to use it when m' honour's 'volved? I tell you," he said thickly,
"when m' honour's 'volved----"
"You get drunk, don't you?" observed Duane. "What a pitiful pup you are,
anyway. Go to bed."
Quest stood swaying slightly on his heels and considering Duane with the
inquiring solemnity of one who is in process of grasping and digesting
an abstruse proposition.
"B-bed?" he repeated; "me?"
"Certainly. A member of this club disgracefully drunk in the afternoon
will certainly hear from the governing board unless he keeps out of
sight until he's sane again."
"Thank you," said Quest with owlish condescension; "I'm indebted to you
for calling 'tention to m-matters which 'volve honour of m' own club
and----"
His voice rambled off into a mutter; he sat or rather fell into an
armchair and lay there twitching and mumbling to himself and inspecting
his automatic pistol with prominent watery eyes.
"You'd better leave that squirt-gun with me," said Grandcourt.
Quest refused with an oath, and, leaning forward and hammering the
padded chair-arm with his unhealthy looking fist, he broke out into a
violent arraignment of Dysart:
"Damn him!" he yelled, "I've written him, I've asked for an explanation,
I've 'm-manded t' know why his name's coupled with my sister's----"
Duane leaned over, slammed the door, and turned short on Quest:
"Shut up!" he said sharply. "Do you hear! Shut up!"
"No, I won't shut up! I'll say what I damn please----"
"Haven't you any decency at all----"
"I've enough to fix Dysart good and plenty, and I'll do it! I'll--let go
of me, Mallett!--let go, I tell you or----"
Duane jerked the pistol from his shaky fingers, and when Quest struggled
to his feet with a baffled howl, jammed him back into the chair again
and handed the pistol to Grandcourt, who locked it in a bureau drawer
and pocketed the key.
"You belong in Matteawan," said the latter, flinging Quest back into the
chair again as the infuriated man still struggled to rise. "You
miserable drunken kid--do you think you would be enhancing your sister's
reputation by dragging her name into a murder trial? What are you,
anyway? By God, if I didn't know your sister as a thoroughbred, I'd have
you posted here for a mongrel and sent packing. The pound is your proper
place, not a club-house"; which was an astonishing speech for Delancy
Grandcourt.
Again, half contemptuously, but with something almost vicious in his
violence, Grandcourt slammed young Quest back into the chair from which
he had attempted to hurl himself: "Keep quiet," he said; "you're a
particularly vile little wretch, particularly pitiable; but your sister
is a girl of gentle breeding--a sweet, charming, sincere young girl whom
everybody admires and respects. If you are anything but a gutter-mut,
you'll respect her, too, and the only way you can do it is by shutting
that unsanitary whiskey-trap of yours--and keeping it shut--and by
remaining as far away from her as you can, permanently."
There were one or two more encounters, brief ones; then Quest collapsed
and began to cry. He was shaking, too, all over, apparently on the verge
of some alcoholic crisis.
Grandcourt went over to Duane:
"The man is sick, helplessly sick in mind and body. If you'll telephone
Bailey at the Knickerbocker Hospital, he'll send an ambulance and I'll
go up there with this fool boy. He's been like this before. Bailey knows
what to do. Telephone from the station; I don't want the club servants
to gossip any more than is necessary. Do you mind doing it?"
"Of course not," said Duane. He glanced at the miserable, snivelling,
twitching creature by the fire: "Do you think he'll get over this, or
will he buy another pistol the next time he gets the jumps?"
Grandcourt looked troubled:
"I don't know what this breed is likely to do. He's absolutely no good.
He's the only person in the world that is left of the family--except his
sister. He's all she has had to look out for her--a fine legacy, a fine
prop for her to lean on. That's the sort of protection she has had all
her life; that's the example set her in her own home. I don't know what
she's done; it's none of my business; but, Duane, I'm for her!"
"So am I."
They stood together in silence for a moment; maudlin sniffles of
self-pity arose from the corner by the fire, alternating with more
hysterical and more ominous sounds presaging some spasmodic crisis.
Grandcourt said: "Bunny Gray has helped me kennel this pup once or
twice. He's in the club; I think I'll send for him."
"You'll need help," nodded Duane. "I'll call up the hospital on my way
to the station. Good-bye, Delancy."
They shook hands and parted.
At the station Duane telephoned to the hospital, got Dr. Bailey,
arranged for a room in a private ward, and had barely time to catch his
train--in fact, he was in such a hurry that he passed by without seeing
the sister of the very man for whom he had been making such significant
arrangements.
She wore, as usual, her pretty chinchilla furs, but was so closely
veiled that he might not have recognised her under any circumstances.
She, however, forgetting that she was veiled, remained uncertain as to
whether his failure to speak to her had been intentional or otherwise.
She had halted, expecting him to speak; now she passed on, cheeks
burning, a faint sinking sensation in her heart.
For she cared a great deal about Duane's friendship; and she was very
unhappy, and morbid and more easily wounded than ever, because somehow
it had come to her ears that rumour was busily hinting things
unthinkable concerning her--nothing definite; yet the very vagueness of
it added to her distress and horror.
Around her silly head trouble was accumulating very fast since Jack
Dysart had come sauntering into her youthful isolation; and in the
beginning it had been what it usually is to lonely hearts--shy and
grateful recognition of a friendship that flattered; fascination, an
infatuation, innocent enough, until the man in the combination awoke her
to the terrors of stranger emotions involving her deeper and deeper
until she lost her head, and he, for the first time in all his career,
lost his coolly selfish caution.
How any rumours concerning herself and him had arisen nobody could
explain. There never is any explanation. But they always arise.
In their small but pretty house, terrible scenes had already occurred
between her and her brother--consternation, anger, and passionate denial
on her part; on his, fury, threats, maudlin paroxysms of self-pity, and
every attitude that drink and utter demoralisation can distort into a
parody on what a brother might say and do.
To escape it she had gone to Tuxedo for a week; now, fear and foreboding
had brought her back--fear intensified at the very threshold of the city
when Duane seemed to look straight at her and pass her by without
recognition. Men don't do that, but she was too inexperienced to know
it; and she hastened on with a heavy heart, found a taxi-cab to take her
to the only home she had ever known, descended, and rang for admittance.
In these miserable days she had come to look for hidden meaning even in
the expressionless faces of her trained servants, and now she
misconstrued the respectful smile of welcome, brushed hastily past the
maid who admitted her, and ran upstairs.
Except for the servants she was alone. She rang for information
concerning her brother; nobody had any. He had not been home in a week.
Her toilet, after the journey, took her two hours or more to accomplish;
it was dark at five o'clock and snowing heavily when tea was served. She
tasted it, then, unable to subdue her restlessness, went to the
telephone; and after a long delay, heard the voice she tremblingly
expected:
"Is that you, Jack?" she asked.
"Yes."
"H-how are you?"
"Not very well."
"Have you heard anything new about certain proceedings?" she inquired
tremulously.
"Yes; she's begun them."
"On--on w-what grounds?"
"Not on any grounds to scare you. It will be a Western matter."
Her frightened sigh of relief turned her voice to a whisper:
"Has Stuyve--has a certain relative--annoyed you since I've been away?"
"Yes, over the telephone, drunk, as usual."
"Did he make--make any more threats, Jack?"
"The usual string. Where is he?"
"I don't know," she said; "he hasn't been home in a week, they tell me.
Jack, do you think it safe for you to drop in here for a few moments
before dinner?"
"Just as you say. If he comes in, there may be trouble. Which isn't a
good idea, on your account."
No woman in such circumstances is moved very much by an appeal to her
caution.
"But I want to see you, Jack," she said miserably.
"That seems to be the only instinct that governs you," he retorted,
slightly impatient. "Can't you ever learn the elements of prudence? It
seems to me about time that you substituted common sense for immature
impulse in dealing with present problems."
His voice was cold, emotionless, unpleasant. She stood with the receiver
at her ears, flushing to the tips of them under his rebuke. She always
did; she had known many, recently, but the quick pang of pain was never
any less keen. On the contrary.
"Don't you want to see me? I have been away for ten days."
"Yes, I want to see you, of course, but I'm not anxious to spring a mine
under myself--under us both by going into your house at this time."
"My brother has not been here in a week."
"Does that accidental fact bar his possible appearance ten minutes from
now?"
She wondered, vaguely, whether he was afraid of anything except possible
damage to her reputation. She had, lately, considered this question on
several occasions. Being no coward, as far as mere fear for her life was
concerned, she found it difficult to attribute such fear to him. Indeed,
one of the traits in her which he found inexplicable and which he
disliked was a curious fearlessness of death--not uncommon among women
who, all their lives, have had little to live for.
She said: "If I am not worth a little risk, what is my value to you?"
"You talk like a baby," he retorted. "Is an interview worth risking a
scandal that will spatter the whole town?"
"I never count such risks," she said wearily. "Do as you please."
His voice became angry: "Haven't I enough to face already without
hunting more trouble at present? I supposed I could look to you for
sympathy and aid and common sense, and every day you call me up and
demand that I shall drop everything and fling caution to the winds, and
meet you somewhere! Every day of the year you do it----"
"I have been away ten days--" she faltered, turning sick and white at
the words he was shouting through the telephone.
"Well, it was understood you'd stay for a month, wasn't it? Can't you
give me time to turn around? Can't you give me half a chance? Do you
realise what I'm facing? _Do_ you?"
"Yes. I'm sorry I called you; I was so miserable and lonely----"
"Well, try to think of somebody besides yourself. You're not the only
miserable person in this city. I've all the misery I can carry at
present; and if you wish to help me, don't make any demands on me until
I'm clear of the tangle that's choking me."
"Dear, I only wanted to help you--" she stammered, appalled at his tone
and words.
"All right, then, let me alone!" he snarled, losing all self-command.
"I've stood about all of this I'm going to, from you and your brother
both! Is that plain? I want to be let alone. That is plainer still,
isn't it?"
"Yes," she said. Her face had become deathly white; she stood frozen,
motionless, clutching the receiver in her small hand.
His voice altered as he spoke again:
"Don't feel hurt; I lost my temper and I ask your pardon. But I'm half
crazy with worry--you've seen to-day's papers, I suppose--so you can
understand a man's losing his temper. Please forgive me; I'll try to see
you when I can--when it's advisable. Does that satisfy you?"
"Yes," she said in a dull voice.
She put away the receiver and, turning, dropped onto her bed. At eight
o'clock the maid who had come to announce dinner found her young
mistress lying there, clenched hands over her eyes, lying slim and
rigid on her back in the darkness.
When the electric lamps were lighted she rose, went to the mirror and
looked steadily at herself for a long, long time.
* * * * *
She tasted what was offered, seeing nothing, hearing nothing; later, in
her room, a servant came saying that Mr. Gray begged a moment's
interview on a matter of importance connected with her brother.
It was the only thing that could have moved her to see him. She had
denied herself to him all that winter; she had been obliged to make it
plainer after a letter from him--a nice, stupid, boyish letter, asking
her to marry him. And her reply terminated the attempts of Bunbury Gray
to secure a hearing from the girl who had apparently taken so sudden and
so strange an aversion to a man who had been nice to her all her life.
They had, at one time, been virtually engaged, after Geraldine Seagrave
had cut him loose, and before Dysart took the trouble to seriously
notice her. But Bunny was youthful and frisky and his tastes were
catholic, and it did not seem to make much difference that Dysart again
stepped casually between them in his graceful way. Yet, curiously
enough, each preserved for the other a shy sort of admiration which,
until last autumn, had made their somewhat infrequent encounters
exceedingly interesting. Autumn had altered their attitudes; Bunny
became serious in proportion to the distance she put between them--which
is of course the usual incentive to masculine importunity. They had had
one or two little scenes at Roya-Neh; the girl even hesitated, unquietly
curious, perplexed at her own attitude, yet diffidently interested in
the man.
A straw was all that her balance required to incline it; Dysart dropped
it, casually. And there were no more pretty scenes between Bunny Gray
and his lady-love that autumn, only sulks from the youth, and, after
many attempts to secure a hearing, a very direct and honest letter that
winter, which had resulted in his dismissal.
* * * * *
She came down to the drawing-room, looking the spectre of herself, but
her stillness and self-possession kept Bunny at his distance, staring,
restless, amazed--all of which very evident symptoms and emotions she
ignored.
"I have your message," she said. "Has anything happened to my brother?"
He began: "You mustn't be alarmed, but he is not very well----"
"I am alarmed. Where is he?"
"In the Knickerbocker Hospital."
"Seriously ill?"
"No. He is in a private ward----"
"The--alcoholic?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," he said, flushing with the shame that had not burnt her white
face.
"May I go to him?" she asked.
"No!" he exclaimed, horrified.
She seated herself, hands folded loosely on her lap:
"What am I to do, Bunny?"
"Nothing.... I only came to tell you so that you'd know. To-morrow if
you care to telephone Bailey----"
"Yes; thank you." She closed her eyes; opened them with an effort.
"If you'll let me, Sylvia, I'll keep you informed," he ventured.
"Would you? I'd be very glad."
"Sure thing!" he said with great animation; "I'll go to the hospital as
many times a day as I am allowed, and I'll bring you back a full account
of Stuyve's progress after every visit.... May I, Sylvie?"
She said nothing. He sat looking at her. He had no great amount of
intellect, but he possessed an undue proportion of heart under the
somewhat striking waistcoats which at all times characterised his
attire.
"I'm terribly sorry for you," he said, his eyes very wide and round.
She gazed into space, past him.
"Do you--would you prefer to have me go?" he stammered.
There was no reply.
"Because," he said miserably, "I take it that you haven't much use for
me."
No word from her.
"Sylvie?"
Silence; but she looked up at him. "I haven't changed," he said, and the
healthy colour turned him pink. "I--just--wanted you to know. I thought
perhaps you might like to know----"
"Why?" Her voice was utterly unlike her own.
"Why?" he repeated, getting redder. "I don't know--I only thought you
might--it might--amuse you--to know that I haven't changed----"
"As others have? Is that what you mean, Bunny?"
"No, no, I didn't think--I didn't mean----"
"Yes, you did. Why not say it to me? You mean that you, and others, have
heard rumours. You mean that you, unlike others, are trying to make me
understand that you are still loyal to me. Is that it?"
"Y-yes. Good Lord! Loyal! Why, of course I am. Why, you didn't suppose
I'd be anything else, did you?"
She opened her pallid lips to speak and could not.
"Loyal!" he repeated indignantly. "There's no merit in that when a man's
been in love with a girl all his life and didn't know it until she'd got
good and tired of him! You know I'm for you every time, Sylvia; what's
the game in pretending you didn't know it?"
"No game.... I didn't--know it."
"Well, you do now, don't you?"
Her face was colourless as marble. She said, looking at him: "Suppose
the rumour is true?"
His face flamed: "You don't know what you are saying!" he retorted,
horrified.
"Suppose it is true?"
"Sylvia--for Heaven's sake----"
"Suppose it _is_ true," she repeated in a dead, even voice; "how loyal
would you remain to me then?"
"As loyal as I am now!" he answered angrily, "if you insist on my
answering such a silly question----"
"Is that your answer?"
"Certainly. But----"
"Are you _sure_?"
He glared at her; something struck coldly through him, checking breath
and pulse, then releasing both till the heavy beating of his heart made
speech impossible.
"I thought you were not sure," she said.
"I _am_ sure!" he broke out. "Good God, Sylvia, what are you doing to
me?"
"Destroying your faith in me."
"You can't! I love you!"
She gave a little gasp:
"The rumour _is_ true," she said.
He reeled to his feet; she sat looking up at him, white, silent hands
twisted on her lap.
"Now you know," she managed to say. "Why don't you go? If you've any
self-respect, you'll go. I've told you what I am; do you want me to
speak more plainly?"
"Yes," he said between his teeth.
"Very well; what do you wish to know?"
"Only one thing.... Do you--care for him?"
She sat, minute after minute, head bent, thinking, thinking. He never
moved a muscle; and at last she lifted her head.
"No," she said.
"Could you care for--me?"
She made a gesture as though to check him, half rose, fell back, sat
swaying a moment, and suddenly tumbled over sideways, lying a white heap
on the rug at his feet.