For a dizzy moment I wondered what she would say and do if she knew the
truth--that Cheneston and I had never been engaged and would never
marry.
Everything we had was white, from the artichoke soup to the iced
pudding. It was a wonderful meal, exquisitely served; it tasted like
straw to me--and it would have fascinated an epicure. There was
champagne, the only note of colour on the table; and Cheneston and I
talked at high tension.
To me it had a peculiar and appealing joy; I could say to Cheneston some
of the things I felt, and he accepted them as part of my role in the
astonishing little farce; and from her bed the old lady watched us, an
indescribably happy expression on her face.
And Cheneston said things to me--things to remember and hoard in myself,
and not the knowledge that they were just "part of the game" could rob
them of their wonder for me.
The atmosphere was extraordinary--to me it felt rather as if we were all
being charming and polite, and listening for an explosion at the same
time; and there were moments when the explosion seemed inevitable. It
seemed as though it _must_ come.
At last she let us go--and yet I was loath to.
As I was crossing the hall a maid came to me.
"The boy brought it nearly ten minutes ago--so I kept him. I didn't
like to disturb you, miss."
I took it. It was from the matron of the hospital. "Patient doing
well. Out of danger."
"No answer," I said.