“Tragedy, then,” he said. “My mother sent me a long—oh, such a priceless letter, to say that when my father came home again—his home, I mean—he would find she had gone.”
The Dryad, the gay conscienceless Nellie, could not, in spite of her improved mind, quite contain herself.
“But your mother?” she asked. “At her age? How absolutely wonderful of her! Do you know who he is?”
Peter tried not to laugh, and completely failed in that dutiful endeavour. She could but follow his lead, and the two, drawing psychically nearer to each other every moment, abandoned themselves, just for natural relief, to this irrepressible mirth.
“You are such a damned fool, Nellie,” he said at length. “Do listen: don’t be funny. It’s quite different.”
“’Pologies,” said she, rather shakily.
“It wasn’t anything so romantic, but it was just as human,” said Peter. “You know how my mother was hammered into herself—that phrase came in her letter, by the way: it’s not original.”
“But I never guessed there was anything to hammer,” said Nellie.
“Nor did I; at least, I only half guessed. But there was. A breaking point came, and she couldn’t stick my father any longer. She has just gone away. Do you remember how she used always to be looking up hotels in railway guides?”
“I remember that most of all,” said she. “Well?”