“Deb, old girl, it’s a fool’s game to pretend one is ill when one isn’t, because——”
“There he is!” burst from Deb’s lips, oblivious of Jenny.
Burton Ames swung into the room, rejuvenated.
“Jenny—Deb—I’m off to-night,”
His voice was still quiet and controlled; but the weary inflexion to which they were accustomed from him had been replaced by tense virility; his bent shoulders were squarely flung back; his eyes snapped and tingled like bright blue fire under the grizzled jutting eyebrows.
“I’m off to-night.”
“She ... your wife ... she wants you again,” Jenny gasped.
“Yes. I spoke to her on the ’phone. She has taken a house in London; Campden Hill; just moved in. I’m joining her at once; she has invited me,” with a quick, whimsical smile. “I wish it hadn’t occurred to you to be ‘taken ill’ just to-night, Jenny dear; you could have helped me pack. Deb’s disqualified, of course; good little girls mayn’t pass the ogre’s threshold, according to Mother’s-Knee. Never mind, I’ll send my orderly down in the morning; can’t wait now. I say, look at Cora!”
Simultaneously the three turned and stared at the altar of their union; the line of flame was slowly narrowing, and the walls and ceiling and furniture, and the faces of the three grouped round and on the bed, hitherto sharply defined in black and white, were already smudged to a mere dimness.
“Cheap irony—oh, very inexpensive indeed!” scoffed Deb. And she was grateful to Cora ... deeply grateful.