They stood together watching her go.
"Poor kid!" said Devery. "It must be something very wrong!"
Angelica was out of sight, hurrying along the street, trembling with eagerness to embrace this anguish, to get it over, to be done with her torment.
She rang Polly’s bell, and Polly herself admitted her visitor. She looked ill and haggard, with eyes heavy and dull, and reddened with sleeplessness—or was it with tears?
"Come in," she said pleasantly. "Sit down, Angelica. Will you have a cup of tea?"
"Oh, no!" she cried. "Hurry up and tell me! They all know it? Eddie’s written! Oh, Mrs. Geraldine, I knew right away! Eddie’s written to say that Vincent’s told him. Oh, my God! He said he would, and he has! That’s what he went for. Oh, my God! All my life ruined! Oh, Mrs. Geraldine!"
"My dear, try to calm yourself," said Polly. "There—sit down. You’re making yourself ill. Vincent hasn’t told any one. He never will, Angelica."
"He said he would!"
"He never will. He’s dead."
Her voice broke in a faint sob.