"How--horrid!"
She went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
"You look ill, poor dear. What is the matter? _Your_ looks are a bit on
the blink, too, Gerry! You must buck up."
She sat down and dabbed gingerly at her eyes with a scrap of
handkerchief. "It _is_ rather tragic, in its very insignificance, isn't
it? Well--what is it? Is it Brigit?"
Mutely and miserably he bowed his head, until she saw the carefully
concealed thin place on his crown.
"I thought so. It's no good, Gerald--give me the cat, will you?--she
dislikes you."
"She loathes me. And I would be burnt to death for her to-morrow."
She started at something in his tone--something she had not heard for
years.
"Can't you get over it?"
"No."
"Then----"
"Oh, my God, Tony, _I_ don't know. Can't--can't you help me?"
"I!"
"Yes. She can't love that boy; he is utterly insignificant. She's
marrying him for his money."
"No. She likes him. But, of course, the money helped. But she wouldn't
marry you if you were a millionaire yourself. She loathes you. Always
has."
"I am going mad, I think. I haven't slept for months. Look at my hand,
how it shakes; anyone would think I was a drunkard! Look here, Tony,
couldn't you ask her to speak civilly to me, at least?"
She was almost frightened as she looked at his piteous face. He had
indeed changed appallingly in the last six or eight months, and there
was a tremulous movement about his well-cut mouth that was alarming.
"Yes, Gerald, I'll ask her. I--I am awfully sorry for you."
"Thanks. As far as that's concerned, everybody in the world ought to be
sorry for everybody else. We all have our little private hell. When is
the--is the wedding-day fixed?"
"Oh, no," she returned hastily, "dear me, no. She is in no hurry to
marry, and he is, of course, dough in her hands. You, at least, needn't
worry about that. Will you dine here?"
"Sorry----"
"She is to be here, and Joyselle. Théo is out of town."
Carron rose and hesitated. "Do you think she'd mind?" he asked
piteously. A sharp pang touched her worldly heart. If, years ago, she
had let him go? If she had not made him give up diplomacy because she
wanted him in England? He would, doubtless, have divorced his impossible
wife, and married, and this would not have come to him.
"Of course she won't mind. Does she know that you love her?"
He nodded. She stared, and then rang the bell. "Bring Mr. Carron a
brandy and soda, Fledge; he is not well."
She went to the window and stood looking out into the quiet street until
the man had returned and she heard Carron set down the empty glass.
Then, without looking at him, she came back. Her shallow soul was
dismayed.
"Dinner at 8.30?" he asked after a pause.
"Yuss. Good-bye till then, for I must fly and make some calls."
"Good-bye, Tony. You are sure that boy isn't coming? I--I am getting to
hate him----"
"Nonsense," she laughed harshly, for she was not merry; "he isn't even
invited. He is in the country, I tell you."
"Then, _au 'voir_."
"_Au 'voir_, Gerry."
He went away, feeling that his cause perhaps was not utterly hopeless.
And in her gaudy bedroom, in the caravanserai that had been her idea of
luxury, his wife lay dead.