That Joan Purchase Atlee, young, rich, attractive, would never marry seemed to be past all question. Her aunt, however, refused to abandon hope. Joan was so obviously cut for wedlock and motherhood. To suckle the memory of a broken dream was out of all reason. ‘Men were deceivers ever.’ Besides . . . But Joan was resolute. She had loved Peregrine with a whole heart, and no other man had ever touched her at all. More. Peregrine had loved her. He had not left her: he had been stolen away. She had never seen Mrs. Below, but she was certain of that. Her man was faithful. If he had been bewitched, so much the worse for them both. Her man was faithful, and she would be faithful to him.
Joan bore Peregrine no grudge. It was not a case of forgiveness: Joan had nothing to forgive. Peregrine and she had been undone—by a third party. The wretched, stumbling note that had broken her heart was in his handwriting, but it was not his note. Their common enemy had written it—the future Mrs. Below. Joan hated Mrs. Below with a bitter, undying hate.
She hoped—prayed that Peregrine was happy: that he never could be so happy as he would have been with her she had no manner of doubt. He was her man.
It follows that when after seven years Joan Purchase Atlee encountered Peregrine and found his eyes lacklustre she was profoundly moved.
Her letter to her twin-sister in distant Philadelphia shall speak for itself.
. . . . I’ve seen him, Betty—at last. He’s here, in this hotel—Peregrine Carey Below, my man. Two hours ago I stepped out of the elevator almost into his arms. I nearly fainted. The hall seemed to heel over and I had to walk uphill. Betty, he—didn’t—know—me. . . . That hurt rather, at first. You know. Nasty jar to one’s pride. The answer is that I’ve changed even more than I knew. After all, seven years isn’t a week-end. . . . But that’s by the way. The sting soon died in a sense of immeasurable relief. Truly Providence is wise. Supposing he had known me. What a hellish position it would have been! Melodrama with an edge. . . . Never mind, Peregrine didn’t know me, and that’s that. But, Betty, he’s miserable—so very wretched. The moment I saw him I knew. He’s going grey at the temples, but that’s nothing—he’s rising thirty-seven. But his eyes, Betty, his eyes. I could have wept to see them. Dull and strained they were—dull and strained and listless . . . his blessed, gentle eyes. . . . Don’t think I’m such a fool as to think it’s because of me. If it were, he’d have known me. No. It’s his wife, Betty—Mrs. Carey Below. She’s making my man wretched. Seven years ago she smashed my life, and now she’s smashing his. . . . I don’t know how long it’s been going on. I don’t know anything—yet. But I saw them go out this morning, and I had a good look at her. Man-mad, Betty. Tough as you make ’em, with a mouth like a steel trap. Rather like Nesta Dudoy, but better-looking. No use for women at all. Very well dressed, and her clothes well put on. Hair too good to be true and a nice skin. And Peregrine fears her, Betty. There wasn’t a taxi or something, and he was all hot and bothered and ready to cry. ‘I ordered it,’ he kept saying, ‘nearly an hour ago.’ She just purred back at him, with veiled eyes. . . . It was really painful. Peregrine rattled because she must wait thirty seconds whilst they sent for a cab! One’s seen it before, of course: but not in a man like him. He’s so quiet and reserved and strong naturally that only a proper shock should be able to shake him up—visibly, at any rate. And here he was—frightened, for all the world to see. . . I say ‘all the world.’ Perhaps I’m wrong. I saw it as clear as daylight, but then I know my man. It was so grievous, Betty. The impulse to go and touch him and talk about something else was almost irresistible. Anything on earth—anything to drive that hunted look out of his eyes. . . . But I had to sit impotently by, pretending to read. I feel I must do something, but what can I do? I wish to God you were here. I can’t trust myself to write more than I have about his wife. You’ll find her and her future in the New Testament. ‘Where their worm dieth not. . . .’
The hotel was crowded, but Joan and her uncle and aunt kept to themselves. The Carey Belows, however, were soon in the thick of things. Within three days the lady had established a Court of which the most favoured members were married men. Peregrine danced with their wives, waited outside the hairdresser’s, reserved tables and cabs, and was reviled night and morning for his pains. Joan was spared the spectacle of the daily drubbings, because those rites were always performed in secret, but she had pieced together the rubric of Peregrine’s life, and to fill such gaps as there were was only too simple. The man’s demeanour alone . . . Peregrine hangdog! Joan’s blood boiled. Besides, she had a maid, and so had Mrs. Below. As luck would have it, both hailed from Camden Town. The rest was easy. The rubric was hideously verified, monstrously annotated. Joan began to see red.
“What have you done about your dress?”