A change came over his face. His scar seemed to twitch and gleam spasmodically in the moonlight. There was a silence. Then very softly he began to laugh, looking at her intently and feeling in all his pockets.
"What was in the letter, Luce?" she said beguilingly. She knew now that it was something she ought to know. But he only went on laughing softly. She tried to recall and understand the words he had been saying, but she could not.
He thought of all the furious rage and contempt he had expended on himself within the last few weeks while he waited and waited for some word of thanks from her for the fine generous thing he had done in telling her the truth at last—that she was not his wife at all; that Carmen Braganza, the beautiful Spanish dancer, whom he had secretly married in Johannesburg, was still living at the time of the ceremony between himself and Poppy——
And she had never read the letter! All was as before!
She did not know, and there was still a fighting chance that, wearied out with the strife and siege, she would turn and surrender.
Then he would say:
"Yes—but we will not take the world into our confidence about the little ceremony in the White Farm. We'll go and be married publicly."
Thinking of these things, what could he do but look at her and softly laugh?
As for her, sick at heart, hopeless, remembering her misery, she turned away and set her desolate face towards the house, where a woman whom she loved well wore two little painted flames in her cheeks.
"What need to strive, with a life awry?"