Moreover, knowing the latent fierceness and ruthlessness in Gita’s nature, she felt she was quite honest in her belief that the shooting had been deliberate; moreover, that if Gita had never met Geoffrey it would not have happened. . . . Sooner or later some man was bound to have demolished that dyke that circumstance had built between conscious intelligence and sex, and an unkind Fate had decreed it should be Geoffrey.
Fine wife for an ambitious hard-working surgeon, always on the lookout for some new kink in the human anatomy he could discover and call by his name. When a woman like that woke up she’d whirl to the other extreme. Have lovers. Snap her fingers at the world. Ruin her husband’s life and career. She’d ruined one man. Quite enough. Even if Eustace accepted his release and came to herself on the rebound—but she was in no mood to indulge in day-dreams. Happiness was not in the air!
In the course of a week what Polly called her attack of temperament wore itself out, and she conceded unwillingly that she might possibly have been unjust. Might have developed an unsuspected capacity for exaggeration. Her brain had felt as if a hot wind were blowing through it. When it whispered itself off, particularly after her brother had given her a bromide and she had enjoyed one night of unbroken sleep, she blushed a little as she regarded herself in the mirror, and peered at her fine brow anxiously. Horrid to have been a mere female. And Eustace may not have spoken, after all. Hard to tell what a man would or wouldn’t do when the throttled beast in him broke loose. She had never seen Gita frightened, but anyone, even an amazon, might be susceptible to fear once in her life.
Then her conscience became active. Love Gita again she never could. That was over. But she could do the decent thing. Moreover, she was curious to see how Polly was conducting her campaign.
She telephoned to the manor and told Topper to inform Mrs. Bylant she would be over at once. She knew that Geoffrey, mortified at her behavior, had told Gita she was in bed with a heavy cold, and at least she would be spared the discomfort of an apology.
But she sighed. She had lost something. She had a curious feeling of emptiness behind that lofty brow. Well, life was life.
CHAPTER XVIII
Gita was sitting on the edge of her bed when Topper brought Elsie’s message.
“Tell her to come up—no, show her into the drawing-room.”
She had been beating her heels on the floor, frowning at the window. It was open and voices drifted up from the garden. They were Polly’s and Geoffrey Pelham’s.