At this stage Felicity's eyes began straying to the clock. "Certainly, if it is true," she said absently.
He left a copy of "Cruel as the Grave" when he went, with many expressions of gratitude, and Felicity said to herself: "What an extraordinary thing! What can he see in Agatha? What can Agatha see in Bob? And there is Vera Ogilvie—really pretty and charming—worrying herself about that dull Captain Henderson, who makes love to every woman he sees, and doesn't care two straws about her." At this point she took up a very handsome photograph of her husband, and looked at it until the tears came into her eyes. It was a charming portrait.
When Bertie Wilton arrived, she brightened up a good deal. He looked better in the afternoon than in the evening, she thought. She liked his bright, intelligent face. And confidences about others do pall after a time. The reaction from Jasmyn made her perhaps more encouraging than she was aware of—she was so depressed about Chetwode's absence. After tea and preliminary platitudes, Mr. Wilton sat beside her on the sofa and took her hand.
"What on earth do you mean by that?" she said, looking more annoyed than surprised.
"You said yourself that life was so short the other night! I haven't the time—I tell you frankly—to be a tame cat and a hanger-on and one of your collection!"
"Really! Sorry you're so busy. I looked upon you as one of the unemployed." She was amazed at his tactlessness.
"You were mistaken. When a thing like this happens—a genuine coup-de-foudre—a man is only a fool who doesn't face it and admit it at once. I care for you really, though I haven't known you—very long. I'll cut it out of my life unless you give me ever such a distant hope that you will—like me—too."
"Will you look at my husband's photograph, Mr. Wilton? He's really very handsome—and particularly amusing. We've been married just thirteen months."
"An unlucky number! Yes, I know he's handsome—and, no doubt, delightful. But he isn't here."
"What's that got to do with it?"