He preceded them wearily.
“You—you’ve got rooms, Bob?” faltered his bride.
Her husband’s eyes shone as he slid an arm beneath hers.
“Course I ’ave, kid.” He hesitated. Then, “I didn’ mean to tell you, but . . . I won’ be able to give you the ’ome you ought to ’ave—servants an’ cars an’ whatnot. More’s the pity. But jus’ this once—for this fortnight I’ve done my lady proud.” His voice began to tremble with excitement and pride. “You’ve got the bes’ room in Suet, darlin’—the best on the ’ole parade. There ain’t a fine lady in the town that’s got such a room. The Countess of ’Ampshire used to ’ave it, an’ all the ’igh muck-a-mucks ’ave bit an’ scratched to get it whenever they come this way. Firs’ floor—looks right over the pier. . . . An’ not a chair moved, nor a picture. You’ll ’ave it jus’ the same. You see, my aunt she keeps apartments—the best in Suet: an’ when we fixed things up I wrote to ’er, told ’er on the Q.T. an’ said I wanted ’er firs’ bedroom—jus’ for you. An’ she wrote beck an’ said that you should ’ave it if she ’ad to turn people out. She’s a good ’eart is old Aunt ’Arriet. Givin’ it us at a cut price, too—season an’ all. An’ we’ll grub with ’er an’ the girls an’ Uncle Tom—I tell you, kid, they don’t ’alf know ’ow to live. Why, you’ll be as fat as butter ’fore we go beck to Town.”
Ann’s brain reeled.
‘Grub with her and the girls and Uncle Tom. . . . Grub with . . .’
The station-yard faded, and the Morland above the mantelpiece stole into view—the spreading oak and the cottage and the girl standing at the door . . . and the man on the horse smiling . . . the humble intimacy of the scene—the simple happiness—the precious privacy . . . privacy. . . .
She was outcaste, of course—excommunicate. The order had been made that morning. She had signed it herself deliberately—with open eyes. More. She had done it gladly. She wanted to be expelled, that she might live with Bob—but under a spreading oak . . . in a cottage . . . alone, as outcastes live . . . not—not at Suet . . . not ‘grubbing with Aunt Harriet and the girls and Uncle Tom.’ . . . She thought Bob had understood that. She had told him so plainly—a child could have understood. And yet . . .
The pathos of his failure hit her between the eyes. He couldn’t grasp that she didn’t want ‘a show’—couldn’t appreciate such heresy. Her words had meant nothing. Because she was his great lady, she must have as fine a show as he could compass. Other women must be made jealous of her fortune. Others could skulk in cottages and under spreading oaks; but she must go to Suet—fashionable Suet, and have the best room in the place . . . looking over the pier. . . . It was the most loving compliment he could pay.
By a supreme effort Ann drove the consternation out of her eyes, shook off the cold clutch of Horror and squeezed her husband’s arm.