“Tell me, Percy,” she repeated, looking up at him, as he stood by the fire, with that little movement of her fair head that he used to say was like a canary.
Percy looked down at her; all his imposingness, all his air of importance, and his occasional tinge of pompousness, had entirely vanished. He was simple, angry and unhappy.
“I found I hadn’t got to go to chambers early this morning after all, so I walked down Bond Street. I went into the Grosvenor Gallery. I saw you there. … It seemed very strange you hadn’t told me. Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you? Bertha, don’t tell me anything that isn’t true!”
Her eyes sparkled. She stood up beaming radiant joy. She went to him impulsively; everything was all right; he was jealous!
“Oh, Percy! I can explain it all.”
Hastily, eagerly, impulsively, with the most obvious honesty and frankness, she told him of how Nigel had promised to help her with Madeline, of how he had planned with her to make Madeline happy; she told him of the variable and unaccountable conduct of Rupert Denison to Madeline, of his marked attention at one moment, his coldness at another. Foolishly, she had been led to believe that Nigel could make things all right. Now this morning Nigel had asked her to meet him to tell her that Rupert had been seen choosing hats for another girl. Bertha was in doubt whether she ought to tell Madeline, and make her try and cure her devotion. And Bertha had thought it all the kinder of Nigel because his brother, Charlie, was very much in love with her.
Percy stopped her in the middle of the story. He could take no sort of interest in it at present. He was much too happy and relieved; he was in the seventh heaven.
“Yes … yes … all right, dear. Only you oughtn’t to have made an appointment with him. Only promise that never again—— You see, things can be misconstrued. And, anyhow, I don’t like to see you with Nigel Hillier. Frankly, I can’t stand it. You’ll make this sacrifice for me—if it is one, Bertha?”
He had quite decided to conceal all about the letters.
“Indeed, indeed I will; and I know I was wrong,” she said. “I mean it’s no good trying to help people too much. They must play their own game. You understand, don’t you? Nigel was only to show me a letter he had written inviting the other girl to lunch—to take her away from Rupert. But it’s all nonsense, and I’ll have nothing more to do with it.”