She tried a daring move. "You paid me well, didn't you?"
Franklin looked as uncomfortable as he felt. He went off at a quick tangent. "I don't think I shall be in New York next fall," he said. "I may go back to South Africa."
Was he really quite so dense? she asked herself. Had he forgotten every single word of that odd talk in the Vanderdykes' library? Would she have to square up to him and blurt out the truth? What was he made of?
She would have one more try. She got up. "I must go now," she said. "It's getting late."
He got up too and opened his door. "Thanks for looking me up," he said. "It was very friendly of you."
She gave him one long, analytical look. No, she and her beauty meant nothing to him. He was not teasing her into a few uncontrolled hysterical words: He was simply a big, naïve, unsuspicious man who thought nothing but good of her. She deserved better than this. She had never had any luck. And she loved this man.
She said "Good night" lightly and passed him with a fleeting smile. But in her own room she flung herself face down on her bed and cried badly.
Franklin hurled off his dressing gown and switched off the light. But in front of his eyes as he lay in the dark he could see Beatrix ankle-deep in a blue sea, with the sun on her red bathing cap, clad in tights, like a boy.
On her way out of Mrs. Keene's room Beatrix saw Ida Larpent leave Franklin's. Someone seemed to have thrown a stone at her heart.
XXXVIII