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Now in his heart Charles knew that this was the only right thing to do. Sally ought never to have been taken away from her husband, and, having been taken, ought to be returned to him. At once. Not tomorrow, but at once. He didn’t know the circumstances, except what Laura had hurriedly told him the night before after supper, about having found her in a train, dissolved in tears because her father was sending her back to a mother-in-law who was awful to her, and she had brought her home with her just to comfort her, just to let her recover; but it was plain that such conduct on Laura’s part was indefensible. If ever anybody ought to be safe at home it was Sally. She should be taken there without losing a moment. Disgraceful of Laura to put it off for another day and night, while she kept her fool engagements. Having behaved so wickedly, she ought, without losing an hour, to set things straight again.
Charles felt strongly about Laura’s conduct; yet, though he himself could have set things straight by simply driving Sally back to the Lukes that morning, he didn’t do so. That was because he couldn’t. He was in love, and therefore couldn’t.
There are some things it is impossible to do when you are in love, thought Charles, who recognised and admitted his condition, and one is to hand over the beloved to a brute. Luke was a brute. Clearly he was, from what Sally had said the night before. He was either angry—angry with that little angel!—or he oh-Sallied. A cold shudder ran down Charles’s spine. The thought made him feel really sick, for he was a tender-stomached as well as a tender-hearted young man, and possessed an imagination which was sometimes too lively for comfort. It wouldn’t be his hand that delivered her up to a young brute; nor, he suddenly determined, on the butler’s hurrying out to Laura, who was standing on the steps seeing him and Sally off, and saying with urgency, ‘Lord Streatley to speak to Mrs. Luke on the telephone,’ would it be his hand that delivered her up to an old one. At once on hearing the message he started the car, and was out of the square before Laura could say anything. There was Sally, tucked up beside him in Laura’s furs, and looking more beautiful in broad sunshine even than he remembered her the night before,—a child of light and grace if ever there was one, thought Charles, a thing of simple sweetness and obedience and trust; and was he going to bring her back to another evening’s exploitation by his sister and her precious friends, with that old scoundrel, his elder brother, all over her?
Never, said Charles to himself; and headed his car for Crippenham.