Lorraine tried to rally him, but without much success; and a pitiless thought that had sometimes assailed her of late—that he regretted their friendship and everything connected with it, struck icily on her heart.
He was too loyal to show it, and yet, that strong instinct of womanhood, which reads closed books as if they were spread open to the light, sounded its warning note. He would never blame her openly, but in his heart he was already beginning to find it a little difficult not to do so secretly.
“You can’t go away alone, Lorry,” he said unhappily, “and I can’t possibly come with you.”
“Of course you can’t,” cheerfully. “It isn’t to be thought of for a moment. I don’t know whether you can even come and see me. You certainly mustn’t run any risks just now. Flip tells me Hall is interested, and you may get your big chance shortly through him.”
“Still, I shall feel rather a beast.”
“You mustn’t do anything so silly.”
She got up and came and stood near him, leaning her face against his arm.
“If you will write to me often, dearie, I shall be all right. If you worry I shall be miserable. Try to understand that you have done nothing to make me unhappy. A little while ago I had a dream of how I longed to go away with a little one of my own, to some quiet spot far removed from all I have ever known. If I am to realise my dream, how should I not be happy? It is what I asked life to give me.”
But his eyes lost none of their gravity. It was evident, in the midst of his dawning success, some cloud had descended upon his horizon, and shrouded much of the sunlight.
Lorraine’s sensitive temperament read it quickly, and she decided, for his sake, to hasten her departure. She thought her continued presence in London under the circumstances was a continual anxiety to him, and that he would only breathe freely when she was safe in Brittany.