An old gentleman passed me and then came back. Instantly the
remembrance of London novels I had read flashed into my mind. Was he
going to offer to adopt me, or help me save my soul, or thrust five
pounds into my hand.
"You're not thinking of--popping in?" he said.
"It hadn't occurred to me," I answered.
"Good," he said, relieved. "It's cold, and damn silly. It just
occurred to me. You seem interested. I can't swim."
"Neither can I," I said.
"Then it _would_ be damn silly," he said. "Good-night."
And then I heard Cheneston's voice.
"Where is your husband?"
"Ah," murmured the old gentleman, "now I see."
"Oh," I said stupidly, "he--he didn't wait."
"I followed you," Cheneston said. "I had to know things."
"What things?" I said feebly. I was beginning to feel the pain now, the
numbness was passing off; and I knew that I was going to suffer.
"I want to know when you married, and if you are happy--and why you ran
away like that, and if you loved Walter Markham. Pam--I'll be content if
you'll only answer me one thing, is he good to you? Have you married
the right man? Pam, I've got to know."
I knew then how much it hurt; my throat felt like a funny little
unoiled, unused machine when I spoke.
"Tell me if you are happily married?"
"I?"
"Yes."
"I'm not married at all."
"Grace," I said, "Grace said----"
"She's married. She married Clay Rendle. She was always in love with
him."
"She was in love with you."
"Never! I was in her confidence, that was all. Clay Rendle's wife was
a homicidal maniac. She died a week after mother. But, Pam--I'll go
away, I'll go straight back to the Savoy now, if you'll just answer
'Yes' or 'No.' Pam, are you happily married?"
"No," I said.
He looked down at me, he was very white there was a queer look on his
face, as if his feelings were bunched up inside him and he was sitting
hard on the lid.