“Oh, well,” Stacey returned, pleasantly enough, “that’s all done with now. Here we all are again. There’s no change in anything, really.”
He glanced at Marian. She was surveying the situation distantly, with a faint amused smile. Stacey’s own sensations beneath his calm demeanor were turbulent and mixed. He desired Marian keenly, hated to let her go, yet felt an antagonism for her that his desire increased rather than diminished. He was jealous of Ames, yet not in the least hostile toward him,—almost kindly, in fact.
“Going to build houses again?” Ames asked.
Stacey considered him for a moment, then Marian, and in that moment wrenched himself free.
“No,” he said, “I believe I’ll go away—travel. Funny thing, but a long stretch of the war-stuff turns a man into a rather solitary animal. Maybe it’s the noise of the guns that’s shut him off for so long from companionship.”
He was not really thinking, except vaguely, of leaving Vernon, and had spoken principally to reassure Ames; for which uncharacteristically benevolent act he was immediately rewarded. The other man’s face relaxed from anxiety into an expression so blissful as to be silly. In spite of his conflicting emotions, Stacey could hardly keep from laughing.
“We shall all be awfully sorry to have you go, Stacey,” said Marian gently. “I shall, especially.”
This might be directed at Ames (Marian was certain to spend a great deal of time in hurting Ames), but Stacey did not think it was. For it was a simple remark, simply phrased. And Marian sat there, quiet, carved, thinking no doubt that Stacey liked her best that way.
Well, he did.
Before long he rose to go. He would have liked to remain and look at Marian, but he had a well developed sense of fair play. Let Ames be happy! And deeper than this was the feeling that since he, Stacey, had decided for freedom he had better begin to act on the decision at once. That was it—act! do something! It was the only release from everything.