“You remember,” said Toby, “what you said yesterday about my not letting
you down?”
Cicely nodded.
“Well, if I’ve seemed off-hand since then, it’s because of what you
said. That’s why I’ve not called you by name or—or told you how sweet
you are. You see, it began as a game—‘Without Prejudice,’ but when you
said what you did, you opened my eyes. . . . And then, suddenly, I
realized that for me the game had slid into reality . . . that I had
quite lost sight of the very first rule of the game. . . . And so—I had
to stop. I couldn’t call you ‘darling’ or speak of the stars in your
eyes, because . . . I find you a darling and I love the stars in your
eyes.”
Cicely bowed her head.
The man continued slowly.
“Well, there you are. I’ve bought it. I’ve queered my rotten pitch. I
suggested the blasted game. I gave it its footling label and let you
come right in—_under that shelter_. Now you’re in balk, and I’ve got to
let you go. . . . Don’t think I’m trying to get out. I’m not. I’ll post
this letter to-night as I’m a living fool. But I’d give ten years of my
life to call back the idle moment when I started that game.”
For a moment the two sat silent. Then, as if by one consent, they rose
to their feet.
Cicely put out a hand, and the man took it.
“Thank you, Toby,” she said, “I knew I could bank on you. I put my value
in your hands, and you’ve given it back. And I think you’re perfectly
right. It’s a stupid game. And—and I’m very glad it’s over.”
Rage put her hand to his lips and turned away.
Her words were equivocal. There was a chance that she meant. . . . But
the chance that she meant nothing must turn the scale.
“And—er—Toby.”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I made up Alfred.”
“Yes, I thought you did,” said Toby.
“Why?”
“Because the man isn’t foaled who after an hour of your sweetness could
refuse you anything. Besides, unless he was mentally deranged, once
having got so far, no man on earth would ever have let you go.”
“Perhaps—perhaps that’s why he did,” said Cicely.
Toby stared.
“But I thought you said——”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of Alfred. There was—another man. He—he was
such a dear. It never occurred to me that he was mad. His—his aunt
wasn’t. I mean—— Oh, Toby!”
The man’s arms were about her, and his cheek against hers.
“Cicely darling, d’you love me?”
“It sounds very weak, Toby dear, but I’m dreadfully afraid I do.”
“My blessed lady,” said Toby, and kissed her mouth. . . .
“Oh, do be careful,” said Cicely. “Love’s a disease, you know. Supposing
you caught it.”
“You wicked child,” said Toby. “I gave it to you.”
“O-o-oh!”
“Yes, I did. I’ve had it for months and months. But I never knew what it
was till . . .”
“When did you know, Toby?”
“At sixteen minutes past five,” said Toby, “yesterday morning.”