Albert put the road between himself and ‘Pier View.’
Ann took off her hat and flung herself face downward upon the bed. . . .
“Why didn’t I think of all this? God knows. How can I possibly bear it? I must. What shall I do—do? Nothing.”
It occurred to Ann suddenly that it was all intensely funny. The comedy of the situation was rich. Albert—Aunt Harriet—Mr. Alcock alone would have brought down the house. Surely, her sense of humour . . .
Somebody laughed—wildly.
Ann perceived that here was another of Satire’s subtleties. Nothing so obvious as tragedy was to be her portion. She was to be tormented by a roaring farce—a farce that was founded on tears and broken dreams and all the cureless agony of passionate regret. It was the Dance of Doom, if not of Death.
When Aunt Harriet reappeared, lugging the dressing-case, she was manifestly conscious that, but for her guest’s whimsy, she would have been spared great provocation, distasteful exercise and—most important of all—a menial task. She certainly managed to smile, but it was a crooked business. She felt that her mask had slipped.
So soon as Ann was ready, the two descended—thoughtfully. The ladylike bond of union which Aunt Harriet had forged seemed to have stretched. All Ann’s efforts to contract it but served to emphasize its slenderness.
Mercifully, Bob was in the parlour, exchanging cheerful reminiscences with a jolly, fat man who proved to be Uncle Tom.
Her husband presented Ann, with shining eyes.