The gleam of hope brightened into a ray. I sat forward on the edge of the chair looking from Lizzie’s bent back to Roger’s face, which had reddened slightly and had a tight look about the mouth. I am, by nature, a shy and modest person, and under normal conditions the last thing I would do would be to force another’s confidence. But I had to know. I had to drag the truth out of them if it came with a shriek like the roots of the fabled mandrake.
“Haven’t you talked at all?” I exclaimed, with an agonized emphasis that might have betrayed me to a child of twelve.
They did not appear to notice it. Roger moved from his corner, picking his way round a clump of boots that had been whirled near the sofa.
“Talk?” said Lizzie, still engaged with the key. “How can people talk when they’re packing to go to Europe? There! It’s in and it turns. Thank goodness the lock’s all right.”
She rose and surveyed the room with an intent frowning glance.
“That,” pointing to the other trunk, “I’ll begin on now and finish to-morrow. This,” turning to the full one, “is done. I’d better lock it at once and get it out of the way.”
She turned back to it and gave a series of tentative pushes at the lid which rose rebelliously over bulging contents.
Nothing had happened! She hadn’t let him speak—he hadn’t dared—no opportunity had offered? What did it matter how or why? The sickening thudding of my heart began to grow less. I leaned my elbow on my knees and my forehead on my hands, feeling at last as if I was going to be Early Victorian and swoon.
Under the shadow of my fingers I could see Roger’s feet stepping carefully among the boots. Skirting tangled heaps of millinery, they arrived at the trunk. I dropped my hands and watched while he addressed himself to Lizzie’s back.
“Good night.” He stretched out his hand. “Good-by.”