Merle permitted herself an aside: “Oh, it’s to be that way, is it?”
“I think so,” and Peter also slipped for a moment out of the circle of limelight. “You, being the Beautiful One, are sure to come in an easy first. And I’d rather play the Unwanted Woman; it affords more scope for my histrionic abilities,” in proof of which, she continued her rôle in such a natural manner that Merle was not sure or not if the tragedy had been indeed resumed.
“I’m going. There’s no sense in dragging this on indefinitely. I shall want to come back and talk about it when I get to the foot of the stairs. It’ll be funny ...” a half-laugh here that might have been a sob, “funny to think of never coming back. We’ve rehearsed this sort of good-bye so often in jest—haven’t we?”
At which Merle flung herself back among the pillows, both hands pressed tightly to her forehead.
“Pax, Peter! pax! I give it up. You’ve twisted up a rehearsal inside a rehearsal, and I don’t know any more if I’m real. Peter, I give it up.”
Peter laughed; and returning from her bowed passage to the door, leapt on to the foot of the bed, drawing up both her legs beneath her, Turkish fashion.
“Now we can’t really quarrel, man or no man. This scene will act as a lightning-conductor, catch it on its way and render it harmless. Besides, anyhow we could never quarrel, because of your grandmother, not to mention my aunt; you know we would hear nothing but: ‘You never ask that charming Peter Kyndersley to tea, chérie, and you were once so fond of her’; and ‘There was a time when Merle des Essarts couldn’t be here enough’ (sniff), ‘I suppose you’ve had a tiff with her!’ A simply unbearable situation; in sheer self-defence we should have to combine forces again.”
Peter looked about her for a cigarette; then, remembering where she was, abandoned the search, and gave her whole attention to the subject in hand:
“To return to the man——”