“Have you got the key of that trunk?” she said. “It’s packed and I want to lock it.”
It was a ruse to get me up there. Even Lizzie wouldn’t announce an engagement at the top of her voice down two flights of stairs. I found the key and mounted, holding to the hand-rail. It seemed a long climb. When I got to the top I had no breath, though I had gone slowly, and I trembled so that I was afraid she would notice it, and laid the key on the table.
The trunk was packed, its lid down, and another, open, with garments trailing over its sides, stood in the middle of the floor. Round it lay the unpacked remains of Lizzie’s wardrobe, in mounds, in broken scatterings, in confused interminglings. If a cyclone had descended on neat closets and bureau drawers, scooped out their contents, carried it with a whirling centripetal motion into the center of the room, took a final churning rush through it and dashed out again, the place could not have presented a more wildly disheveled appearance.
In an unencumbered corner, an eddy untouched by the cyclone’s wrath, Roger stood putting on his coat. We looked across the chaos, bowed and smiled. I knew my smile by heart. Roger’s was something new, rose no higher than his lips, leaving his eyes somber, I might say sullen. Lizzie, without words, had snatched up the key and knelt by the trunk. She looked untidy, hot and rather cross. They certainly had not the appearance of lovers.
I fell weakly into a chair and awaited revelations. None came. Roger buttoned his coat, Lizzie made scratching noises with the key. There was something strained and sultry in the silence. Could she have refused him? One of the disappointing things about people in real life is their failure to rise to the dramatic expression fitting to great moments. Had I been in a play I would have used words vibrating with the thud of my own heart-beats. What I did say was:
“Have you had a nice evening?”
“Very,” said Roger with a dry note.
“Have we,” murmured Lizzie, busy with the key. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’ve not had time to say a word to Mr. Clements.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been rather in the way,” he remarked, the dry note a trifle more astringent.
“Well, the truth is you have,” she answered. “Are you sure this is the right key, Evie?”