“I’ve not the faintest idea. But I’m pretty sure he’s cooling. Now he’s not the man to cool off unless somewhere around there’s another brighter fire. Of course, we—I may be wrong.”
“Madge thinks so?”
Crispin threw away his cigar, picked up a chair and sat himself down with the table between himself and Eleanor Cloke.
“Look here,” he said, “if you want to be happy, Nell, you’ll take my advice. Back out before it’s too late. If you and he marry, you’re done. Madge and I’ve always been afraid that you wouldn’t be able to hold him. Well, it looks as though we were right. . . . You’re awfully sweet, Nell, and David’s one of the best. He’ld never go looking for trouble—he’s not that sort. But he’s an attractive man, and there are plenty of girls. Only a strong personality—a charm that fills up his life—will ever hold David Herrick.”
“I see,” said Eleanor slowly, nodding her head. “And my charm’s not strong enough?”
“I’m frightfully sorry, Nell, but I’m afraid it isn’t. The mercy is that you haven’t burned your boats.”
There was a long silence.
From behind the closed door a sudden swell of applause came to their ears, subduing for an instant the faint roar and jingle of the traffic, the toots of innumerable horns, and even the staccato clamour of a fire-engine’s tongue. Then the demonstration died down, leaving the distant racket to snarl and grumble over the bone of silence as a beast frets jealously over the consumption of its prey.
At length—
“Well, I’m greatly obliged,” said Miss Cloke, with a dry laugh. “It was a good thing I wrote, wasn’t it?”