And she pretended to enjoy the trip. She was even jollier than Barty. She spurred on her anxious heart to a hectic gayety. She talked and laughed, always with her eyes on Barty’s face.
He had engaged not a room, but a suite of parlor, bedroom, and bath. Mentally she computed the cost of this, and was appalled; but even then she said nothing. If this was what Barty wanted, very well, she was glad he had it. If it gave him any joy to waste what he had worked so hard to get, very well, she would not spoil his week by a single remonstrance.
He was walking up and down the parlor, with his hands in his pockets, and Jacqueline was in the bedroom, unpacking her bag. She had said all the things she could think of in praise of the suite. While she tried to think of some more praise, a blank little silence had fallen.
“Jacko,” he said, “you—you really do like this, don’t you? You really will be happy here, won’t you—for this week?”
He spoke like a doomed man, as if this week was to be their last. He didn’t even try to smile. Jacqueline could not bear it.
“Barty,” she said, “aren’t you well?”
“Well?” he repeated, in surprise. “Of course I’m well! I’m always well!”
She hesitated for a moment. Then she got up and went into the parlor, barring his path, so that he had to stop short in his pacing; and she asked him the question that had been in the back of her mind all the time.
“Didn’t Mr. Stafford like your going away, Barty?”
“Who cares?” said he.