She was as puzzled at her own conduct as Brackenhurst, or as Annabel Moulde herself.
For Annabel, that silken skirmisher, had found herself, as she sheltered at Green Gates one afternoon, neither feinting, thrusting, nor awaiting attack; but, huddled over a comforting hearth, with the rain curtaining the windows, the flames dancing from her little bronze toes on the fender to Laura’s knitting needles and back again to her toes, was inexplicably impelled to confidences.
“Robin—going out—simply miserable, both of us. Mrs. Gedge—an old beast—loathes me—always has—‘Wait till the war’s over’—always the same old story.”
It came out in jerks to the accompaniment of the crackling fire and the purring of the cat on Laura’s knee.
“If I were only married to him—it would make all the difference—I could stand it then.” Then, in sudden, sullen retreat: “Oh, of course, I don’t expect you to understand. You think it’s husband-hunting—like Mrs. Gedge.”
Again there was a silence, with the flames lighting up Annabel’s face and losing Laura’s in the shadows of Gran’papa’s chair.
“Not that I care what you think. But if Robin’s hurt—they’ll keep me out. I couldn’t even wear mourning.”
Laura’s exclamation could have meant anything—but Annabel reddened, stammering a little—
“Well, but—can’t you understand? It’s true. I’d have no right——I want my right. And—and I’ve never felt like that about any of my boys. I never did about Robin himself—till the war. But now——Oh, Laura, what am I to do?”
“Do? What can any one do?” Laura’s voice was as expressionless as her face.