She nodded assent and promised to be ready.
Left to herself, she went to her room and dressed with mechanical care. Her mind tossed the while like an oarless boat in the sea of her restless thoughts.
What could she do? Wait—wait and hope, and watch things go wrong.... Roger was in love now, and prepared to be patient; but Roger was only a man.... He would get over it in time; and Alwynne, finally released from Clare's influence—that, too, surely, was only a question of time—would find out what she had lost.... She understood Alwynne well enough to know that if she cared, however unconsciously, for Roger, she would never be content to attach herself to any later comer.... Alwynne was terribly tenacious. So she, too, would waste and spoil her life; and for the sake of an infatuation, a piece of girlish quixotry.... It was criminal of Clare Hartill to allow it.... She supposed that the situation amused Clare; at least, if Alwynne's version had allowed her to guess it.... She wondered exactly how much Alwynne would tell Clare....
Suddenly and wonderfully she was illumined by an idea.
Roger, returning punctually with his bag, found Elsbeth awaiting him on the step, in calling costume, pulling and patting at a new pair of gloves with extraordinary energy. Her cheeks were bright; she had the air of frightened bravery of a cornered sheep.
"Come away quickly, Roger," she whispered, with a glance at the windows. "I don't want Alwynne to catch me. I can't come with you to the station, Roger. I'm going to see Clare Hartill."
CHAPTER XLIV
Alwynne, for all her eagerness, took more than her usual breathless ten minutes in reaching Clare Hartill's flat. Underneath her pleasure at seeing Clare again ran a little current of uneasiness. There was so much to be told, not only in deference to the intimacy of their relationship, but in order to procure the proof that had never before seemed necessary, that Roger's, and incidentally Elsbeth's, view of that relationship was wrong.... Clare, of course, was reserved, undemonstrative, not, Alwynne was prepared to admit, so kindly or considerate a companion as—well, as Roger.... But why it should therefore follow that Roger loved her better, and was more worthy—preposterous word—of her own love, Alwynne could not see.... Clare Hartill cared for her, had told her so, had—had not as yet proved it, because there had been no need of proof.... Alwynne could love for two.... But to-day she felt only an aching desire that Clare should realise the importance of what she had just done; should reward her sacrifice with little softenings and intimacies, some such signs as she had shown her in the earlier days of their friendship, of affection and sympathy.... She did not ask much, she told herself; if Clare were only a little kind, she should not miss Roger. Even as she so decided, her cheek flushing at the idea of Clare's kindness, at the possibility of a return to their earlier relationship, she saw suddenly, with flashlight distinctness, how much, even then, she should miss Roger, how great her sacrifice would still be.... She saw, as in a vision, the man and woman drowning in waste seas, and she herself at rescue work with room for one and one only in the boat beside her.... She felt herself torn by the agony of choice, knowing the while, that a year ago it had not been so; that a year ago she would have outstretched arms for Clare alone; that even now, Elsbeth, The Dears, all alike might drown in that dream sea, so long as Clare were saved.... She acknowledged, she exulted in the narrowness of her affection.... Clare before the world! But Clare before Roger? Clare safe and Roger drowning? She chuckled as it occurred to her that Roger would certainly be able to swim.... Yes, he would swim comfortably alongside and spare her the fantastic trouble of a choice.... Blessed old Roger!