LITMIR.BIZ

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I’ll find you a coat of Cyril’s. Oh, Mother, he’s come all those miles in the car without stopping — make him lie down.”

      She ran and brought him a jacket, and put the cushions round, and made him lie on the couch. Then she took off his boots and put slippers on his feet. He lay watching her all the time; he was white with fatigue and excitement.

      “I wonder if I shall be had up for scorching — I can feel the road coming at me yet,” he said.

      “Why were you so headlong?”

      “I felt as if I should go wild if I didn’t come — if I didn’t rush. I didn’t know how you might have taken me, Lettie when I said — what I did.”

      She smiled gently at him, and he lay resting, recovering, looking at her.

      “It’s a wonder I haven’t done something desperate — I’ve been half mad since I said — Oh, Lettie, I was a damned fool and a wretch — I could have torn myself in two. I’ve done nothing but curse and rage at myself ever since. I feel as if I’d just come up out of hell. You don’t know how thankful I am, Lettie, that you’ve not — oh — turned against me for what I said.”

      She went to him and sat down by him, smoothing his hair from his forehead, kissing him, her attitude tender, suggesting tears, her movements impulsive, as if with a self-reproach she would not acknowledge, but which she must silence with lavish tenderness. He drew her to him, and they remained quiet for some time, till it grew dark.

      The noise of my mother stirring in the next room disturbed them. Lettie rose, and he also got up from the couch.

      “I suppose,” he said, “I shall have to go home and get bathed and dressed — though,” he added in tones which made it clear he did not want to go, “I shall have to get back in the morning — I don’t know what they’ll say.”

      “At any rate,” she said, “You could wash here —”

      “But I must get out of these clothes — and I want a bath.”

      “You could — you might have some of Cyril’s clothes — and the water’s hot. I know. At all events, you can stay to supper —”

      “If I’m going I shall have to go soon — or they’d not like it, if I go in late; — they have no idea I’ve come; — they don’t expect me till next Monday or Tuesday —”

      “Perhaps you could stay here — and they needn’t know.” They looked at each other with wide, smiling eyes — like children on the brink of a stolen pleasure.

      “Oh, but what would your mother think! — no, I’ll go.”

      “She won’t mind a bit.”

      “Oh, but —”

      “I’ll ask her.”

      He wanted to stay far more than she wished it, so it was she who put down his opposition and triumphed.

      My mother lifted her eyebrows, and said very quietly: “He’d better go home — and be straight.”

      “But look how he’d feel — he’d have to tell them . . . and how would he feel! It’s really my fault, in the end. Don’t be piggling and mean and Grundyish, Matouchka.”

      “It is neither meanness nor Grundyishness —”

      “Oh, Ydgrun, Ydgrun —!” exclaimed Lettie, ironically. “He may certainly stay if he likes,” said Mother, slightly nettled at Lettie’s gibe.

      “All right, Mutterchen — and be a sweetling, do!”

      Lettie went out a little impatient at my mother’s unwillingness, but Leslie stayed, nevertheless.

      In a few moments Lettie was up in the spare bedroom, arranging and adorning, and Rebecca was running with hot-water bottles, and hurrying down with clean bedclothes. Lettie hastily appropriated my best brushes — which she had given me — and took the suit of pyjamas of the thinnest, finest flannel and discovered a new tooth-brush — and made selections from my shirts and handkerchiefs and underclothing — and directed me which suit to lend him. Altogether I was astonished, and perhaps a trifle annoyed, at her extraordinary thoughtfulness and solicitude.

      He came down to supper, bathed, brushed, and radiant. He ate heartily and seemed to emanate a warmth of physical comfort and pleasure. The colour was flushed again into his face, and he carried his body with the old independent, assertive air. I have never known the time when he looked handsomer, when he was more attractive. There was a certain warmth about him, a certain glow that enhanced his words, his laughter, his movements; he was the predominant person, and we felt a pleasure in his mere proximity. My mother, however, could not quite get rid of her stiffness, and soon after supper she rose, saying she would finish her letter in the next room, bidding him good-night, as she would probably not see him again. The cloud of this little coolness was the thinnest and most transitory. He talked and laughed more gaily than ever, and was ostentatious in his movements, throwing back his head, taking little attitudes which displayed the broad firmness of his breast, the grace of his well-trained physique. I left them at the piano; he was sitting pretending to play, and looking up all the while at her, who stood with her hand on his shoulder.

      In the morning he was up early, by six o’clock downstairs and attending to the car. When I got down I found him very busy, and very quiet.

      “I know I’m a beastly nuisance,” he said, “but I must get off early.”

      Rebecca came and prepared breakfast, which we two ate alone. He was remarkably dull and wordless.

      “It’s a wonder Lettie hasn’t got up to have breakfast with you — she’s such a one for raving about the perfection of the early morning — its purity and promises and so forth,” I said.

      He broke his bread nervously, and drank some coffee as if he were agitated, making noises in his throat as he swallowed.

      “It’s too early for her, I should think,” he replied, wiping his moustache hurriedly. Yet he seemed to listen for her. Lettie’s bedroom was over the study, where Rebecca had laid breakfast, and he listened now and again, holding his knife and fork suspended in their action. Then he went on with his meal again.

      When he was laying down his serviette, the door opened. He pulled himself together, and turned round sharply. It was Mother. When she spoke to him, his face twitched with a little frown, half of relief, half of disappointment.

      “I must be going now,” he said —“thank you very much — Mother.”

      “You are a harum-scarum boy. I wonder why Lettie doesn’t come down. I know she is up.”

      “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I’ve heard her. Perhaps she is dressing. I must get off.”

      “I’ll call her.”

      “No — don’t bother her — she’d come if she wanted —”

      But Mother had called from the foot of the stairs. “Lettie, Lettie — he’s going.”

      “All right,” said Lettie, and in another minute she came downstairs. She was dressed in dark, severe stuff, and she was somewhat pale. She did not look at any of us, but turned her eyes aside.

      “Good-bye,” she said to him, offering him her cheek. He kissed her, murmuring, “Good-bye — my love.”

      He stood in the doorway a moment, looking at her with beseeching eyes. She kept her face half averted, and would not look at him, but stood pale and cold, biting her under-lip. He turned sharply away with a motion of keen disappointment, set the engines of the car into action, mounted, and drove quickly away.

      Lettie stood pale and inscrutable for some moments. Then she went in to breakfast and sat toying with her food, keeping her head bent down, her face hidden.

      In less than an hour he was back again, saying he had left something behind. He ran upstairs, and then, hesitating,

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