“He is still in America,” for his windows showed sombre. But she remembered that in these days of air-raids, the erring woman, creeping back to her past, could no longer expect to see the welcoming gleam from her lover’s lamp—or candle—or electric light.... It was still possible that Blair was at home....
But of course he was in America!
Crouching against the pillar at the foot of the steps, it struck her how in picture she resembled her private and particular horror as she had once described it to Gillian—the wanton always and inevitably “left,” outcast in the rain and the cold, while inside husband and wife contentedly read aloud the Faerie Queene....
“I only need the baby under my shawl....”
And suddenly she flushed crimson, there to herself in the dusk; and in secret shame sprang quickly to her feet, “I’m going home—to Flo, I mean—”
And banality, stage-manager till the end, at that moment smartly brought up Blair Stevenson to the foot of the steps; and suggested he should switch on his torch to aid his search for the keyhole—the flare of light swept across Deb’s face.
II
Deb arrived at Martha’s, wondering if anyone so virtuous as herself had ever inhabited Hampstead or the universe. The scene with Blair had been a most astonishing one. Not only did he subtly convey to her his refusal to meet her on the old terms of play, but he rather more directly than usual put to her the choice of being extremely good or—or extremely bad. Blair—who of all men had seemed to acquiesce in the demi-game for the demi-maid! Blair, who was practically the inventor of fine shades.... “Quite so, my dear—but now—” he lightly touched the wedding ring on her finger.
“Does that make a difference?”
The slice from the cut loaf....