Neither of them knows how miserable I am, or that I suspect they are.
Sometimes life seems so strange to me, peopled by a lot of actors and
actresses all living little lies.
I know Cheneston will never tell Grace that his engagement to me is only
a farce. He has a fierce sense of honour, it makes him regard all sorts
of things that other men do every day as utterly and absolutely
impossible.
Sometimes I have thought of going to Grace and telling her the whole
story of the mistake from beginning to end; but it might make things
even more impossible for Grace, because it isn't the sort of story a
woman should tell a woman.
I wish I could learn to care for one of the boys and they for me, it
would simplify matters; but not one of them is a bit keen. Their eyes
shine when I sing--but they shine because of the memories I bring of
other girls.
I am just "a nice little thing" and "a perfect sport"--and it is as safe
as being the mother of sons too old for the Army.
Mother is getting a trifle impatient. She twitters about weddings
sometimes, and comes and sits on my bed and shows me pictures of bridal
gowns from sixpenny illustrated weeklies. Poor mother! it's going to be
a bitter blow. Sometimes I feel a little criminal about it. I read a
book the other day in which the heroine finds herself in "a ridiculous
position, unbelievable and unsurpassed in fiction"--I laughed until I
cried. She had only got to use a pennyworth of honesty and a pinch of
common sense to get out of her position; I am wedged tight in mine.
Fantastic problems often demand fantastic solutions.
Meanwhile, winter is coming on, frost is crisping the leaves, this
morning the dahlias in our little garden were black and sodden.
_Later the same day_.
I have found the solution--and it is even more fantastic than I had
dreamed of.
I know that Mrs. Gilpin, Grace, young Wontner, Cheneston, and one or two
other men who were at Gilpin's to-night, think I am in love with Walter
Markham in Mesopotamia and he with me--in spite of the fact that I was
engaged to Cheneston when he went out.
I saw the Way Out for Cheneston quite suddenly, and grabbed it before it
was too late.
I am sure that to-morrow Cheneston will come to me and ask me outright
if I love Markham, and then he will release me---- Oh, I don't know
what will happen! There will be a horrible row with mother, and I am
sure Grace will marry Cheneston before he goes out.
They were all talking about Markham, and saying how weird it was that no
one had heard a single word since he left England.
"He's not the sort of man to drop his friends, either," Mrs. Gilpin
said; then she turned to me, laughing. "Come now, Pam, you were in his
confidence--haven't you heard?"
"Yes," I lied suddenly, "I've heard."
Everyone exclaimed.
Grace Gilpin was wearing pearl grey crepe de Chine and old Mechlin lace;
she leant forward in her low chair and stared at me; her face was very
pale, her wonderful eyes wide.
"You didn't tell us, Pam!" she said, her voice thrilled, that queer
silver voice that always seemed to laugh. "Why ever didn't you tell
us?"
Cheneston was staring at Grace. He was white too. I had a queer idea
that a minute before Grace had seemed very far away from him and I had
brought her near.
One or two of the men were looking at Cheneston furtively, to see how he
took it.
"Yes, why didn't you tell us, Pam?" Cheneston said.
Suddenly I realised that they were all thinking what I meant them to
think--that Walter and I were unconfessed lovers.