“Oh, all right,” she said wearily. “I swear it.” She felt that she no longer cared what happened in a sudden overwhelming fatigue.
“I don’t believe you,” said Williams bitterly.
Elsie shrugged her shoulders, and turned, moving stiffly, to leave the room.
“Are you—are you hurt?”
“Yes, of course I am. My shoulder will be black and blue to-morrow, I should think.”
“Shall I get you anything?” Williams muttered, shamefaced.
She made no answer.
That afternoon Elsie rang up Leslie Morrison on the telephone after her husband had gone out. “Is that you, Les?”
“Yes. How’s yourself?”
He had told her never to be prodigal of verbal endearments in their telephone communications, and she knew that he was probably not alone, but it struck her painfully that his tone was a purely casual one, such as he might have used to anyone.