"But, my dear," smiled the doctor indulgently, "you wouldn't call him by his Christian name! I think he would be rather annoyed to be treated like a servant."
"I wasn't thinking of him as a servant."
They got up from the table together and she went with him as far as his study door.
"What have you been doing with yourself—theatres?"
"Yes, and a ball. An all-night affair. I came home at eight."
"Humph—bad for you, that sort of thing."
She was sure it was. It was bad to lie, too, but she was beyond caring. Ambrose never lied. He would lie for her. Ronnie also would lie—for himself. She mused and mused, thinking of Sault—Ambrose Sault. And the red-haired invalid. And this sister of hers whom Ambrose had gone to Steppe about—she laughed quietly. She would have loved to have seen that contest of giants. Could Steppe be browbeaten? It seemed impossible, and yet Ambrose had cowed him.
She dreamed that night that she saw Ronald and Sault fighting with reaping hooks—she woke up with a shiver. For in her dream their heads had been exchanged, and Ronnie's face smiled at her from Sault's broad shoulders. It was growing light, she found, when she peeped through the curtains. She went to bed again, but did not sleep any more.
It was a coincidence that Ronald Morelle was also awake at that hour. His new responsibility was weighing on him like a leaden weight. She would never let him go. Her wire had terrified him. "There's no end to it!" he said with a groan, "no end."
He did not love Beryl; he loved nobody, but there were some girls whom he wanted to see again and again. Evie was one of that kind. He did not want to see Beryl. He pictured himself chained for life to a woman who was now wholly without attraction. To this misery was added a new and unbelievable horror.