Nevertheless she did not want to think. The calm judicial mood she had meant to evoke escaped her. Instead she felt restless, she wanted to explore her flat and see what there was behind all its doors and in all its cupboards. She wanted to examine the orange-red furniture in the sitting-room, and to decide whether she liked the extraordinary patterns that were painted in gold and silver on its hangings. She could consider nothing else, she felt, until she had considered the room. Something about it was certainly Japanese and yet it wasn't Japanese in the least. She wanted to open all the flat's windows too, and put her head out and look up and down the street. It was in vain that she rebuked herself. This was not like the other furnished houses, it was her adventure, her defence, her stronghold, where nothing mattered but her own will. It was her will now to be foolish and frivolous, to enjoy, as far as she could, the little sensations that were offered her. She could not, though she wished it, feel adequately solemn.
When Guinivere returned with the chicken, Mary was still wandering through the rooms, looking at their astonishing decorations. It was pleasant to help Guinivere lay the table under the pretext of learning where all the things were kept, it was pleasant to hang anxiously with her over the gas cooker, wondering when the moment had come for the chicken's release. It was pleasant to agree that the little bit of burn could not possibly affect the flavour.
After dinner there were the things to put away, just to see that she remembered their places, and the books on the dining-room bookshelves to look through—it was not until nine o'clock that she remembered her letter to the bank. That changed the current of her thoughts. She realised that although she was restless she was also very tired. She realised, too, that James had read her letter, that he was probably at that moment struggling with the emotions her letter had caused. A new fear occurred to her. He was probably very angry—she could not tell in the least how angry he might be. His anger seemed suddenly real to her. Even in the security of her silver walls it made her tremble. Even here he could hurt her. Supposing, to punish her, he intercepted her news of Rosemary. She did not know where to write to Rosemary. Before this fresh anxiety, slight though it was, the last of her excitement disappeared. She went into her bedroom, worried and dispirited, looking forward to a wakeful night. She was astonished when she woke next morning to remember that she had not even heard the funny clock strike ten.
[CHAPTER XVI]
JAMES received Mary's letter, by a happy chance, just as he was about to ring up his solicitors and ask them to send him some papers that he wanted to show her next day. When he had read its first few sentences, he asked for the messenger boy, but his clerk told him that the boy had already gone. As that was so, he told the man to get him a taxi—he could very well finish the letter on his way home. While he was waiting, he walked up and down his room. "This is nonsense!" he told himself. "This is nonsense—it must be stopped at once!" He got into his taxi without being aware of any other feeling than his determination that it must be stopped.
The light in the taxi was bad, and Mary's sloping writing seemed difficult. He realised that he was not understanding what he read, and when he had gathered the facts of the affair he put the crumpled sheets back into his pocket. Then he pulled up the window of the taxi—the early spring day was cold. Already the other, the emotional aspects of Mary's conduct were forcing themselves upon his mind, but again and again he wrenched his thoughts away—he must look at it now, he insisted, simply in the light of something that had to be stopped. Over a growing consciousness of disaster he kept his attention busy with the familiar spaces and buildings that he passed, and with the people in the streets.
As soon as he reached home he sent for Penn. "What train did Mrs. Heyham catch?" he asked her.
Penn did not know, Mrs. Heyham had left for Victoria at three. But she could ask Lang.
It would be ten minutes before the chauffeur came—James went into his study and took out the letter again. But even now he could not understand it. She was angry with him about Greta, he supposed, and to revenge herself she had determined to refuse her consent to his scheme. Then she had been afraid, she had not dared face him, so she had run away. He felt the tide of his anger rising to meet the anger he imagined in her. He could not doubt for a moment which was the stronger and the more effective. It was difficult to believe that she could have been foolish enough to provoke him like this——
At that moment he heard footsteps on the marble floor of the passage and he tried, instinctively, to resume the usual calm of his expression. But the muscles of his face, stiffly contracted, would not relax. He faced Lang, coming in at the door, with a deep frown.