“You’re very good to me, Bob,” she said steadily. “I think you were wonderful to think of it all. We shall—shall be grand having the best room in Suet.”
Bob coloured with delight.
“Oh, it’s nothin’ much,” he said awkwardly. “I ’spect you’ve often ’ad rooms pretty near as good. But I—I like to think I’ll be giving you the best . . . jus’ for once.”
He broke away and made for a cabman, who, learning his applicant’s vocation, might see his way to take them on trade terms.
Ann watched him dazedly.
Nothing, it seemed, was to be spared her—nothing.
The discovery that she had made one grand, imperishable mistake stunned her: the savagery of the penalty she was to pay made her soul blench: but the ghastly, mocking irony of poor Bob’s solicitude cut like a cold, wet lash. Foul tongue in cheek, the spirit of Satire was possessing his honest heart. Beneath this hideous influence, thought, word and loving deed emerged grotesque, cross-gartered. He ushered some tender travesty with every breath. The eager pride with which he strove to make Fate split its sides tore at Ann’s heart. It was pathetic—with the pathos of the dying dog that whimpers to think it cannot rise to make its master sport. And just because it was so heartrending he could not possibly be told. Blow, lash, claw had to be suffered unflinchingly. He—he could not be told.
As for her love——
Ann put a hand to her head, as though to focus the truth.
Her passion for Bob was gone. The flax was not even smoking. The fire had been quenched.