“Far from it!” he declared. And he tried to smile at her. “Wait till I get you safely to London. You’ll see how it will revive!”
The door stood open between them, and it was not his child who looked at him, answering his sally with a smile as difficult as his own. “Dear, brave Bevis,” she murmured.
And, as she turned and left him, he saw again the love that had cherished him so tenderly, faltering, helpless, at the threshold of her lips and eyes.
VIII
MISS LATIMER dined with him. She told him that the poor woman had died, and they talked of the Peace Conference. Miss Latimer read her papers carefully and the subject floated them until dessert. She spoke with dry scepticism of the League of Nations. Her outlook was narrow, acute, and practical. As they rose from the table she bade him good-night.
“Do you mind giving me a few moments, in the library, first?” he said. “I don’t suppose we’ll have another chance for a talk. You and Antonia are going to Cornwall, I hear.”
She hesitated, looking across at him, still at the table, from the place where she had risen. “Yes. We are. I have a great deal to do.”
“I know. But our train is not early. I should be very much obliged.” Under the compulsion of his courtesy she moved before him, reluctantly, to the library.
“You see”—Bevis following, closed the door behind them—“a great deal has happened to me since we talked yesterday. I’ve heard of things I did not know before. They have changed my life and Antonia’s. And since it’s owing to you that they’ve come, I think you’ll own it fair that I should ask for a little more enlightenment.”
His heart had stayed sunken in what was almost despair since Tony had left him. He had no plan; no hope. It was in a dismal sincerity that he made his request. There might be enlightenment. If there were, only she could give it. She was his antagonist; yet, unwillingly, she might show him some loophole of escape.