“The girls,” Bevis was saying, “leave on Thursday. The rest of the week I shall be alone. On Monday the furniture will be stowed away at the Pantechnicon, and on Tuesday—off I go.”
A casual listener could have supposed that the prospect pleased him. Monica, with a fixed smile, looked at the other groups conversing in the room; no one was paying any attention to her. In the same moment she heard a murmur from her companion’s lips; he was speaking still, but in a voice only just audible.
“Come on Friday afternoon about four o’clock.”
Her heart began to throb painfully, and she knew that a treacherous colour had risen to her checks.
“Do come—once more—for the last time. It shall be just as before—just as before. An hour’s talk, and we will say good-bye to each other.”
She was powerless to breathe a word. Bevis, noticing that Mrs. Cosgrove had thrown a look in their direction, suddenly laughed as if at some jest between them, and resumed his lively strain of talk. Monica also laughed. An interval of make-believe, and again the soft murmur fell upon her ear.
“I shall expect you. I know you won’t refuse me this one last kindness. Some day,” his voice was all but extinguished, “some day—who knows?”
Dreadful hope struck through her. A stranger’s eyes turned their way, and again she laughed.
“On Friday, at four. I shall expect you.”
She rose, looked for an instant about the room, then offered him her hand, uttering some commonplace word of leave-taking. Their eyes did not meet. She went up to Mrs. Cosgrove, and as soon as possible left the house.