“Devotion! She knows I enjoy her society. She knows I’ve never given anything further a thought—any more than she has herself. There’s never been a glance of sentiment between us. She amuses herself with one man after another. She told me so herself. What—how could you—after what I told you——”
“Yes, yes, I remember.” She did not raise her eyes. Geoffrey had not looked so attractive in costume as with those flaming furious blue eyes—almost black with temper—exactly like an indignant schoolboy unjustly accused of raiding an orchard. “Please sit down. I’ve apologized. You should forgive me.”
He lifted his chair and dropped into it. “You don’t deserve to be forgiven,” he growled, although his anger was ebbing. “But we’ll settle this once for all. If I’ve made Polly conspicuous there is but one thing for me to do. I’ll place Eustace in the hands of a local practitioner and return to New York. As she will spend the summer here we shall drift apart naturally, and anyone who has gossiped—if anyone has—will forget it. There are too many to take my place. But as a matter of fact I don’t believe anyone has thought of such a thing but you.”
“Oh—I don’t think you should do that—leave Eustace—I——”
She felt unaccountably nervous. Cold. There was a slight tremor in her knees.
She was on the point of telling him that Mrs. Pleyden and Elsie had expressed themselves forcibly, and that Polly was serious . . . that would settle it. But she could not—or would not. Moreover Topper entered at the moment. Gone was the desire to show Polly her place, but Polly had had her chance and lost out. Why should she sacrifice herself further? . . . Sacrifice? She frowned down at the unsteady hands in her lap. What did she feel, anyhow? Damn it.
Then that zealous little censor she had firmly dethroned reinstated itself slyly. Why, of course, she wanted his friendship. She must have a friend. She’d not make a second mistake and marry one—not she—a man whose eyes burned like blue rockets . . . rather interesting, a friendship with a spice of danger in it. Her friendship with Eustace had certainly lacked that. He’d never hung out a danger-signal until that night after the party when his eyes betrayed that the bottom was beginning to fall out of his little game. And in him it was merely revolting. The very thought made her sick.
But it attracted her uncannily in this man, in spite of the fact that she had nothing to give him. Well, she’d have him for a friend if she could manage him. Heaven knew she needed one. Being a hermit in an old manor house didn’t really appeal to her at all. No drama in that. . . . Here might be the bridge to something new. Element of suspense in it, anyhow. . . . Who knew? What, after all, was life but successive links in a chain?
Topper had brought in a lemon pie as light as a soufflé and retired. She looked up and smiled, a hesitating, curiously girlish smile. Geoffrey’s face was calmer but his eyes still burned.
“You won’t really go?” she asked pleadingly. “You know how Eustace depends on you. It might set him back. And now that you’re no longer worried about him you’re enjoying your vacation. If it’s all right about Polly there’s no need to bother. And nobody else will be here but your sister. Mrs. Pleyden thinks Eustace wrenched his shoulder and has only telephoned once to inquire. Topper and the gardener won’t talk. Nor those nurses, I suppose. The other servants think he slipped and fell downstairs. And I don’t want a strange doctor here. And as Elsie’s coming to stay, no doubt Polly will go home. Do, please, stay.”