How I got through those next few weeks I cannot tell. I had no sense of the reality of the world about me or of my own thoughts and actions. Every once in a while—sometimes when I was talking with the men whose company I sought, again when I was alone in bed and would start abruptly from sleep—I pinched myself or struck myself violently to see if I was awake. Edna’s letters were daily and long. I read them, stared at them, felt less certain than ever of my sanity or of my being awake. I sent her an occasional telegram, dictated to Rossiter—a vague sentence of congratulation on her better health or something of that kind. Soon this formality degenerated to a request to Rossiter: “And telegraph Mrs. Loring.” Or he would say, “Shall I send Mrs. Loring a telegram?” and I would reply, “Yes—do please.”
It was obviously necessary that I should not see her before she was well enough to be talked to frankly. I invented excuses for staying away until my ability in that direction gave out. Then Rossiter, best of secretaries, divining my plight, came to the rescue. I gave him a free hand. He went too far, created in her predisposed mind the illusion that I was champing with impatience at the business that persisted in keeping me away from her. I do not blame him; he took the only possible course.
At last she was completely restored. The doctors and nurses could find no pretext for lingering, and that in itself was proof positive of her health and strength. She was having her meals with the family, was attending to her correspondence, was alarmed because she was taking on flesh so rapidly. She began offering to join me in London. When she wrote that she was starting the next day I telegraphed her not to come; and, after four more days of delay on various excuses, I went down. I should have liked to postpone this interview a week or ten days. Again I see you smiling at me, posing as madly in love with Mary Kirkwood yet able to put off the joy of being free to go to her. But, gentle reader, you must not forget that I had first to deal with Edna. And, from what you have learned of her, do you think I was wise or foolish to wish to meet her only when she could not possibly prevent candor by pleading a remnant of invalidism?
She was charmingly dressed to receive me, rushed forward before them all and flung her arms around my neck in a graceful, effusive fashion she had learned on the Continent. I received the shock as calmly as I could, noting the awkwardly concealed surprise of Margot and Hugh. We had lunch; she did most of the talking—a gay, happy-hearted rattling—the natural expression of a woman with not a care in the world. And I— In spite of myself I felt like an executioner come to assassinate an unsuspicious and innocent victim. For the best side of her was to the fore, and all the unpleasant traits were so thoroughly concealed that they seemed to have been burned up in that terrible fever. I knew they were still there, but I could not feel it.
When we were alone in her sitting room, she said:
“Where’s your valet and your luggage?”
“In London,” said I.
“Oh, they’re coming on a later train.”
“No,” said I, seizing this excellent opportunity. “I’m going back this afternoon.”