CHAPTER VII

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR

Having secured Kitty's forgotten fan, Mallory absent-mindedly descended the long stone flight of steps instead of taking the lift and, regaining the street, hailed a pa.s.sing taxi and drove towards Green Street, whither the Seymours' car had already proceeded.

As the driver threaded his way through the traffic, Peter's thoughts revolved round the scene which his unexpected return to the flat had interrupted. There was only one deduction to be drawn from it, which was that Nan, after all, still cared for Maryon Rooke. The old love still held her.

The realisation was bitter. Even though the woman who was his wife must always stand betwixt himself and Nan, yet loving her as he did, it had meant a good deal to Mallory to know that no other man had any claim upon her.

And earlier in the afternoon, just before the maid had intruded on them to deliver Rooke's telegram, it had seemed almost as though Nan, too, had cared. One moment more alone together and he would have known--been sure.

A vague vision of the future had even flashed through his mind--he and Nan never any more to one another than good comrades, but each knowing that underneath their friendship lay something stronger and deeper--the knowledge that, though unavowed, they belonged to each other. And even a love that can never be satisfied is better than life without love.

It may bring its moments of unbearable agony, but it is still love--the most beautiful and glorious thing in the world. And the pain of knowing that a great gulf is for ever set between two who love is a penalty that real love can face and triumph over.

But now the whole situation was altered. Unmistakably Maryon Rooke still meant a good deal to Nan, although Peter felt a certain consciousness that if he were to pit himself against Rooke he could probably make the latter's position very insecure. But was it fair?

Was it fair to take advantage of the quick responsiveness of Nan's emotions--that sensitiveness which gave reply as readily as a violin to the bow?

She was not a woman to find happiness very easily, and he himself had nothing to offer her except a love that must always be forbidden, unconsummated. In G.o.d's Name, then, if Maryon Rooke could give her happiness, what right had he to stand in the way?

By the time the taxi had brought him to the door of Kitty's house, his decision was taken. He would clear out--see as little of Nan as possible. It was the best thing he could do for her, and the consideration of what it would cost him he relegated to a later period.

His steps lagged somewhat as he followed the manservant upstairs to Kitty's own particular den, and the slight limp which the war had left him seemed rather more marked than usual. Any great physical or nervous strain, invariably produced this effect. But he mustered up a smile as he entered the room and held out the recovered fan.

The "little milliner" was nowhere to be seen, and Kitty herself was ensconced on the Chesterfield, enjoying an iced lemon-squash and a cigarette, while Penelope and Barry were downstairs playing a desultory game of billiards. The irregular click of the ivory b.a.l.l.s came faintly to Mallory's ears.

"Got my fan, Peter? Heaps of thanks. What will you have? A whisky-and-soda? . . . Why--Peter--"

She broke on abruptly as she caught sight of his face. He was rather pale and his eyes had a tired, beaten look in them.

"What's wrong, Peter?"

He smiled down at her as she lay tucked up amongst her cushions.

"Why should there be anything wrong?"

"Something is," replied Kitty decidedly. "Did I swish you away from the flat against your will?"

"I should be a very ungrateful person if I failed to appreciate my present privileges."

She shook her head disgustedly.

"You're a very annoying person!" she returned. "You invariably take refuge in a compliment."

"Dear Madame Kitty"--Mallory leaned forward and looked down at her with his steady grey-blue eyes--"dear Madame Kitty, I say to you _what I mean_. I do not compliment my friends"--his voice deepened--"my dear, trusted friends."

His foreign twist of phrase was unusually p.r.o.nounced, as always in moments of strong feeling.

"But that's just it!" she declared emphatically. "You're _not_ trusting me--you're keeping me outside the door."

"Believe me, there's nothing you'd wish to see--the other side."

"Which means that in any case it's no use knocking at a door that won't be opened," said Kitty, apparently yielding the point. "So we'll switch off that subject and get on to the next. We go down to Mallow Court at the end of this week. I can't stand town in July. What date are you coming to us?"

Peter was silent a moment, his eyes bent on the ground. Then he raised his head suddenly as though he had just come to a decision.

"I'm afraid I shan't be able to come down," he said quietly.

"But you promised us!" objected Kitty. "Peter, you can't go back on a promise!"

He regarded her gravely. Then:

"Sometimes one has to do--even that."

Kitty, discerning in his refusal another facet of that "something wrong" she had suspected, clasped her hands round her knees and faced him with deliberation.

"Look here, Peter, it isn't you to break a promise without some real good reason. You say you can't come down to us at Mallow. Why not?"

He met her eyes steadily.

"I can't answer that," he replied.

Kitty remained obdurate.

"I want an answer, Peter. We've been pals for some time now, and"--with vigour--"I'm not going to be kept out of whatever it is that's hurting you. So tell me."

He made no answer, and she slipped down from the Chesterfield and came to his side.

"Is it anything to do with Nan?" she asked gently, her thoughts going back to the talk she had had with Penelope before the bridge party began.

A rather weary smile curved his lips.

"It doesn't seem much use trying to keep you in the dark, does it?"

"I must know," she urged. Adding with feminine guile:

"Of course I should be frightfully hurt if I thought you weren't coming just because you didn't want to. But still I'd rather know--even if that were the reason."

"Not want to?" he broke out, his control suddenly snapping. "I'd give my soul to come!"

The bitterness in his voice--in the lazy, drawling tones she knew so well--let in a flood of light upon the darkness in which she had been groping.

"Peter--oh, Peter!" she cried tremulously. "You're not--you don't mean that you care for Nan--seriously?"

"I don't think many men could be with her much without caring," he answered simply.