He waited for his opponent to speak; waited vainly.
“Well? What do you think about it, Mr. Jameson?”
“To tell you the truth,” prevaricated Peter, “I’ve never contemplated such a thing.”
To the woman-mind of Patricia, the conversation grew more and more fantastic; seemed like the game of cross-purposes and crooked answers she had played as a child. “Here”—she reasoned—“were two men, one of whom obviously wanted to buy, the other to sell. Why, then, all this finessing?”
Gradually, she lost interest; began to think of her kiddies. What a shame they should be left alone for Christmas. She blamed herself a little, her desire to be alone with Peter. . . . Six o’clock! And she hadn’t unpacked yet. . . .
Both men got up to bid her au revoir: sat down again. She could hear their voices as she waited for the lift.
“You don’t want to be bothered with it, Mr. Jameson. Not now you’re in the Army. And I’d pay you a good price. I would reelly.”
§ 5
Unpacking Peter’s haversack in the warm, lighted bedroom with the drawn blue curtains and the two brass bedsteads, Patricia found a bundle of correspondence addressed “Francis Gordon, Esq., 10 Mecklinburgh Square.” A postcard, an American picture-post-card, dropped out of the bundle: lay, address downwards, on the carpet. The colouring and design—a large white hotel set among palm-trees—caught her eyes; and she could not help reading the handwriting underneath: “A happy Christmas. It’s a long time since you’ve written. Why? B.C.”
Patricia had asked herself the same question many times in the last months. Nobody knew exactly what had happened to Francis Gordon. Except Peter. She felt certain that Peter knew. But Peter wouldn’t say; contented himself, in reply to verbal enquiries with: “All I can tell you, is that he’s all right.” Her letters on the subject, he had calmly ignored. . . .