Love in a Muddle

by Christine Jope-Slade

"Yes," I lied suddenly, "I've heard."

Everyone exclaimed.

Grace Gilpin was wearing pearl grey crêpe de Chine and old Mechlin lace; she leant forward in her low chair and stared at me; her face was very pale, her wonderful eyes wide.

"You didn't tell us, Pam!" she said, her voice thrilled, that queer silver voice that always seemed to laugh. "Why ever didn't you tell us?"

Cheneston was staring at Grace. He was white too. I had a queer idea that a minute before Grace had seemed very far away from him and I had brought her near.

One or two of the men were looking at Cheneston furtively, to see how he took it.

"Yes, why didn't you tell us, Pam?" Cheneston said.

Suddenly I realised that they were all thinking what I meant them to think—that Walter and I were unconfessed lovers.

I had achieved my effect.

"I—I didn't wish to," I said, and burst into tears.