"Of course they know!" said Mrs. Russell. "You don’t suppose they’re blindfolded, do you?"
A loud and violent discussion followed, all three of them talking at once, under cover of which Angelica addressed her neighbour.
"What are you doing up here?"
"Just what you’re doin’," replied Courtland. "Eatin’ my dinner."
She had no opportunity to say more to him, for Mrs. Russell peremptorily ordered him to fetch the car, and, after gulping down his pudding in sullen resentment, he left the table.
"I’ve got to take Vincent to the Country Club," she said. "He’s going to sing ‘Sambre et Meuse’ at an entertainment there. My dear, you should hear him. Of course we’re all supposed to be strictly neutral, and all that, but up there, at the club, the pretense is frightfully thin. All really decent people, you know. We have a dear little wounded Belgian officer who’s going to speak; but I’ve heard him simply hundreds of times, so I won’t wait. I’ll be home in half an hour. Make yourself at home, won’t you?"
Angelica reassured her light-hearted hostess that she would be altogether happy and comfortable until her return, and, after the motor-car had gone, wandered back into the library, looking for a book.
But she couldn’t read. She began to contemplate her coming interview with Vincent.
She could not trust him for an instant. She never knew when he would be moved to tell the entire story to Eddie, or to his mother, or to any one else. If he were attacked by one of his fits of remorse, he would be almost certain to do so. She held him only by a threat made in a mood of supreme passion, which she could never recapture.
Despair crept over her. This step along her stony path seemed too difficult. She had no violent emotion to carry her forward now; no impetus remained from her former terrific onslaughts. She had simply to state a request—a request of the utmost importance to all her future life; and she felt quite sure it would be refused.