'And I'd do anything in the world to get you. And I'd do anything in the world for you, too. And if you cared for me I'd go away all the same. At least, I believe I should...We shall be there in a minute.

'Listen, dear. I want you, occasionally, to write to me; there's no earthly reason why you shouldn't. I'll let you know my address. It will prevent my being too miserable, or rushing back. And will you do something else for me?'

'Anything.'

'Angel! Well, when you write, call me Aylmer. You never have yet, in a letter. Treat me just like a friend--as you treat Vincy. Tell me what you're doing, where you're going, who you see; about Archie and Dilly; about your new dresses and hats; what you're reading--any little thing, so that I'm still in touch with you.'

'Yes, I will; I shall like to. And don't be depressed, Aylmer. Do enjoy your journey; write to me, too.'

'Yes, I'm going to write to you, but only in an official way, only for Bruce. And, listen. Take care of yourself. You're too unselfish. Do what you want sometimes, not what other people want all the time. Don't read too much by electric light and try your eyes. And don't go out in these thin shoes in damp weather--promise!'

She laughed a little--touched.

'Be a great deal with the children. I like to think of you with them.

And I hope you won't be always going out,' he continued, in a tone of unconscious command, which she enjoyed....'Please don't be continually at Lady Everard's, or at the Mitch.e.l.ls', or anywhere. I hate you to be admired--how I hate it!'

'Fancy! And I was always brought up to believe people are proud of what's called the 'success' of the people that they--like.'

'Don't you believe it, Edith! That's all bosh--vanity and nonsense. At any rate, I know I'm not. In fact, as I can't have you myself, I would really like you to be shut up. Very happy, very well, with everything in the world you like, even thinking of me a little, but absolutely shut up! And if you did go out, for a breath of air, I should like no-one to see you. I'd like you to cover up your head--wear a thick veil--and a thick loose dress!'

'You're very Oriental!' she laughed.

'I'm not a bit Oriental; I'm human. It's selfish, I suppose, you think?

Well, let me tell you, if you care to know, that it's _love_, and nothing else, Edith....Now, is there anything in the world I can do for you while I'm away? It would be kind to ask me. Remember I shan't see you for three months. I may come back in September. Can't I send you something--do something that you'd like? I count on you to ask me at any time if there's anything in the world I could do for you, no matter what!'

No woman could help being really pleased at such whole-hearted devotion and such Bluebeard-like views--especially when they were not going to be carried out. Edith was thrilled by the pa.s.sionate emotion she felt near her. How cold it would be when he had gone! He _was_ nice, handsome, clever--a darling!

'Don't forget me, Aylmer. I don't want you to forget me. Later on we'll have a real friendship.'

'_Friendship!_ Don't use that word. It's so false--such humbug--for _me_ at any rate. To say I could care for you as a friend is simply blasphemy! How can it be possible for _me_? But I'll try. Thanks for _any_thing! You're an angel--I'll try.'

'And it's horribly inconsistent, and no doubt very wicked of me, but, do you know, I should be rather pained if I heard you had fallen in love with someone else.'

'Ah, that would be impossible!' he cried. 'Never--never! It's the real thing; there never was anyone like you, there never will be.

Let me look at you once more....Oh, Edith! And now--here we are.'

Edith took away her hand. 'Your scarf's coming off, you'll catch cold,' said Aylmer, and as he was trying, rather awkwardly, to put the piece of blue chiffon round her head he drew the dear head to him and kissed her harshly. She could not protest; it was too final; besides, they were arriving; the cab stopped. Vincy came to the door.

'Welcome to Normanhurst!' cried Vincy, with unnecessary facetiousness, giving them a slightly anxious glance. He thought Edith had more colour than usual. Aylmer was pale.

The supper was an absolute and complete failure; the guests displayed the forced gaiety and real depression, and constrained absentmindedness, of genuine and hopeless boredom. Except for Lady Everard's ceaseless flow of empty prattle the pauses would have been too obvious. Edith, for whom it was a dreary anti-climax, was rather silent. Aylmer talked more, and a little more loudly, than usual, and looked worn. Bruce, whom champagne quickly saddened, became vaguely reminiscent and communicative about old, dead, forgotten grievances of the past, while Vincy, who was a little shocked at what he saw (and he always saw everything), did his very best, just saving the entertainment from being a too disastrous frost.

'Well! Good luck!' said Aylmer, lifting his gla.s.s with sham conviviality.' I start tomorrow morning by the Orient Express.'

'Hooray!' whispered Vincy primly.

'Doesn't it sound romantic and exciting?' Edith said. 'The two words together are so delightfully adventurous. Orient--the languid East, and yet express--quickness, speed. It's a fascinating blend of ideas.'

'Whether it's adventurous or not isn't the question, my dear girl; I only wish we were going too,' said Bruce, with a sigh; 'but, I never can get away from my wretched work, to have any fun, like you lucky chaps, with no responsibilities or troubles! I suppose perhaps we may take the children to Westgate for Whitsuntide, and that's about all.

Not that there isn't quite a good hotel there, and of course it's all right for me, because I shall play golf all day and run up to town when I want to. Still, it's very different from one of these jolly long journeys that you gay bachelors can indulge in.'

'But I'm not a gay bachelor. My boy is coming to join me in the summer holidays, wherever I am,' said Aylmer.

'Ah, but that's not the point. I should like to go with you now--at once. Don't you wish we were both going, Edith? Why aren't we going with him tomorrow?'

'Surely June's just the nice time in London, Bruce,' said Vincy, in his demure voice.

'Won't it be terribly hot?' said Lady Everard vaguely. She always thought every place must be terribly hot. 'Venice? Are you going to Venice? Delightful! The Viennese are so charming, and the Austrian officers--Oh, you're going to Sicily first? Far too hot. Paul La France--the young singer, you know--told me that when he was in Sicily his voice completely altered; the heat quite affected the _veloute_ of his voice, as the French call it--and what a voice it is at its best!

It's not the _highest_ tenor, of course, but the medium is so wonderfully soft and well developed. I don't say for a moment that he will ever be a Caruso, but as far as he goes--and he goes pretty far, mind--it's really wonderful. You're coming on Wednesday, aren't you, dear Mrs Ottley? Ah!'... She stopped and held up her small beaded fan, 'what's that the band's playing? I know it so well; everyone knows it; it's either _Pagliacci_ or _Boheme_, or _some_thing. No, isn't it really? What is it? All the old Italian operas are coming in again, by the way, you know, my dear... _Rigoletto_, _Lucia_, _Traviata_--the _bel canto_--that sort of thing; there's nothing like it for showing off the voice. Wagner's practically gone out (at least what _I_ call out), and I always said Debussy wouldn't last. Paul La France still clings to Brahms--Brahms suits his voice better than anyone else. He always falls back on Brahms, and dear de Lara; and Tosti; of course, Tosti. I remember...'

Aylmer and his guests had reached the stage of being apparently all lost in their own thoughts, and the conversation had been practically reduced to a disjointed monologue on music by Lady Everard, when the lights began to be lowered, and the party broke up.

'I'm coming to see you so soon,' said Vincy.

CHAPTER XIV

The Letter

It was about a fortnight later.

Edith and Bruce, from different directions, arrived at the same moment at their door, and went up together in the lift. On the little hall-table was a letter addressed to Edith. She took it up rather quickly, and went into the drawing-room. Bruce followed her.

'That a letter, Edith?'

'What do you suppose it is, Bruce?'

'What _could_ I have supposed it was, Edith? A plum pudding?' He laughed very much.

'You are very humorous today, Bruce.'

She sat down with her hat, veil and gloves on, holding the letter. She did not go to her room, because that would leave her no further retreat. Bruce sat down exactly opposite to her, with his coat and gloves on. He slowly drew off one glove, folded it carefully, and put it down. Then he said amiably, a little huskily:

'Letter from a friend?'

'I beg your pardon? What did you say, dear?'

He raised his voice unnecessarily:

'I Said A LETTER FROM A FRIEND!'

She started. 'Oh yes! I heard this time.'