He stammered, instead, something about going out. She
nodded her head; she had pulled herself together and walked towards him
from the window.
"Won't you come, too? It is such a lovely day," he asked her.
"I've got a headache."
"It'll do your headache good."
But she shook her head--"No, I'm going upstairs to lie down."
She moved past him to the door. Then with her hand on it she turned back to
him:--
"Peter, I--" she said.
She seemed to appeal to him with her eyes beseeching, trying to say
something, but the rest of her face was dumb.
The appeal, the things that she would have said suddenly died, leaving her
face utterly without expression.
"Bobby and mother are coming to dinner to-night, aren't they?"
"Yes--"
She passed through the door across the sunlit hall, up the dark stairs. She
walked with that hesitating halting step that he knew so well: her small,
white hand lay, for a moment on the banisters--then she had disappeared.
IV
Coming through the hall Peter noticed that there was a letter in the box.
He took it out and found, with delight, that it was from Stephen Brant. He
had had no word from him since the day when he and Mr. Zanti had paid their
fateful visit.
The letter said:--
_Dear Mr. Peter,
This is a hurried line to tell you that He is dead at last, died in drink
cursing and swearing and now her mother and she, poor dear, are going to
America and I'm going to look after her hoping that we'll be marrying in a
few months' time and so realise my heart's wish.
Pages:
573
574
575
576
577
578
579
580
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597