Mr. Ricardo was here this afternoon. He
thought I was ill--he thought you had told him you couldn't come because I
was ill. I said I had had to stay at home--it was easier--I knew there
had been a mistake."
The old life again. They were confederates and she had lied to shield him
even from herself. She was looking past him as though she saw someone
standing behind him in the dark passage. He was so sure of it that he
wanted to turn round. But he did not dare.
"I wish I'd known. We--we might have gone together. I used to be very
fond of a good circus. Did they have elephants? Robert--Robert, dear,
why didn't you tell me about it?"
He shook his head. He knew now that he could never have told her or made
her understand. She would have thought him silly--or disloyal. She would
never see that this new love had nothing to do with the Robert who would
die if Christine left him. It had to do with another boy who longed for
bands and processions and worshipped happy, splendid people who did not
have to tell lies and who were so strong and fearless that even fierce
animals had to obey them. They were different. They did not live in the
same life. You could love them without pain or pity.
It was a secret thing, inside himself. If he tried to drag it out and
show it her, no one could tell what would happen to it.
She sighed deeply.
"It's this being away all day. If I had been at home you would have asked
me for the money, wouldn't you? And then you forgot to tell me.
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