But Miss Laura—courteous, thoughtful Miss Laura—cut inexorably through his suggestions.
“I’m driving Mr. Justin, Robert. He won’t be a moment.”
She took the reins from his unwilling hand and springing up, settled herself quickly in his rightful place. He might have been a chauffeur, a hired chauffeur, from her tone. He retired to the back seat, outraged.
They said nothing at all during their short drive. Laura’s eyes, and for all Justin knew her thoughts, were on the mare’s ears, a-prick for an excuse to shy. And his thoughts had travelled ahead of him. He was wondering where he should find his men, and how.... In a way he shouldn’t be sorry to get back.... One never knew what might happen when one left the show to other people.... Yet how he hated leaving it all ... his mother ... and the quiet ... and his own den ... and Laura.... As for Laura—he was glad—he was sorry—that their talk had broken where it had.... But Laura was right.... It wasn’t the time.... He had seen, as in a crystal, a blurred glimpse of what the future might hold for him—Fair Haven or Fata Morgana—but which he could not tell ... he had not time to tell....
Fair Haven ... his home—his wife—his children, his own children—a slip of a daughter, maybe—a fierce, rain-drenched imp with eyes like diamonds—with eyes like Laura’s....
Fair Haven? Fata Morgana? How was he to know? Good Lord, how was he to know?...
And then, resentfully——Why couldn’t Laura—no, that wasn’t fair—she wasn’t that sort—but why couldn’t Life leave him alone? He was doing his job—he was fighting. Why couldn’t Life leave it at that?... Life, oblivious of wars and peaces, sitting like a spider in her great web, spinning entanglements.... But he would not be involved in her cobwebbery of commingling lives.... Why shouldn’t he be on his own?...
Flower o’ the peach,
Death for us all, and his own life for each!
His own life for each!... There—there was common sense at last, behind the fever and the glamour!... His own life for each....