"Oh,
I'm a beast. It was jolly decent of you. You meant well. But you
can't help."
And _that_ was what she had said. Stonehouse made no answer. He saw
himself as ridiculous and futile. He was sick with disgust at his own
pain. If he had lost Cosgrave he wanted to have done with the whole
business now--quickly and once and for all.
There was a sense of finality in the shabby room. The invisible bond
that had held them through eight years of separation and silence had
given way. It was almost a physical thing. It checked and damped down
Cosgrave's excitement so that he said almost calmly:
"Well, I shan't attempt to see her again. You'll have that
satisfaction. I'll get out of here--back to my jolly old swamp, where
there aren't any beastly women--decent or indecent--only mosquitoes."
He waited a moment, as though trying hard to finish on a warmer, more
generous note. Perhaps some faint flicker of recollection revived in
him. But it could only illuminate a horrifying indifference. He went
out without so much as a "good-night."
The morning papers gave the Kensington House incident due prominence.
It was one more feather in Mademoiselle Labelle's outrageous head-gear.
The Olympic had not so much as standing room for weeks after.
Cosgrave kept his word. He did not see her again, and within a week he
had sailed for West Africa--to die. But ten days later Stonehouse
received a wireless, and a month later a letter and a photograph of a
fair-haired, tender-eyed, slightly bovine-looking girl in evening
dress.
Pages:
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309