He was resolved to strike when the iron was hot, and to get away while she was in this docile mood. She was gentle and quiet and seemed very unhappy, but made no objections to his plans; she would not, perhaps, have minded his leaving her for a day or two, since she felt uncomfortable and in the wrong, but she dreaded his being away for weeks. He said he would join Rupert at Venice; and this she rather preferred, as Rupert was known to be a quiet, steady, studious young man.
But when the last moment came and the packed trunks were put on the cab, he had said good-bye to her and the children and that last terrible bang of the hall door resounded in her heart, she could not look out of the window in her usual place. She had felt the agony known to all loving hearts, the conviction that a traveller is already at a distance before he goes. He is no longer with her when his thoughts are with stations and tickets—indeed the real parting is long before he starts. Then the unconscious sparkle of pleasure in his eyes as he imagines himself away! He had gone already before he went; she did not want to see the last of him. She went up to her room and locked the door, and threw herself on the sofa in a terrible fit of despair and jealousy. Jealousy still, that was her great fear of his going away. He would forget her and be unfaithful, she thought. …
She suffered terribly that evening, and the next day resolved to take a somewhat singular step. If she had been doing Bertha an injustice, as it seemed, if Bertha was not seeing him at all, why should she not go and see her? She felt instinctively that besides getting the truth out of her, and perhaps apologising for what had happened at the party, Bertha might give her some advice. Everyone said she was so kind and clever. She decided not to write, but she rang up on the telephone and asked if Bertha would receive her at three o’clock. She felt a strange curiosity, a longing to see her. She received the answer, Mrs. Kellynch would be delighted to see her at any time in the afternoon.
CHAPTER XXXII
PRIVATE FIREWORKS AT THE PICKERINGS’
I SAY, Clifford, when is your birthday?” This momentous question was asked of Clifford with the liveliest interest by Cissy Pickering, a remarkably pretty little girl of about his own age.
They were in the gigantic and gorgeous apartment set apart as a playroom for the young Pickerings in Hamilton Place, Park Lane, and arranged partly as a gymnasium—it had all the necessities—partly as a schoolroom. It contained a magnificent dolls’ house fitted up with Louis Quinze furniture and illuminated with real electric light; a miniature motor car in which two small people could drive themselves with authentic petrol round and round the polished floor; a mechanical rocking-horse; a miniature billiard-table and croquet set; a gramophone; cricket on the hearth, roller-skates; a pianola, and countless other luxuries.
Decorated by illustrations of fairy tales on the walls, it was altogether a delightful room; made for all a child could want.