But Colonel Agnew, gazing at it all, saw none of it. Presently he said, without turning even his head, “And her baby—the girl—was born that night.”
Basil Traherne neither moved nor spoke.
Agnew pitched his cigar out on the jasmine, came back to his chair, and lit another. “She forgave him, of course, or I suppose she did. I tell you, all along she never has said a word nor given a sign. I’ve often wondered if she ever has even to him. He kept straight for a bit after that. And, if ever a man was proud of a child, Crespin was proud of that baby. The boys used to chaff him, and ask if he wouldn’t like to bring it on to parade. And he’d say, he would.”
Traherne nodded.
“He kept straight, but he didn’t keep on keeping straight. Every once and again, he’d break out—and, whenever he did, Crossland did his prettiest, and I did my damnedest.”
Dr. Traherne smiled slightly, but Colonel Agnew did not see it—perhaps that was as well.
“I don’t say he went the whole hog often. He didn’t. But he sipped and sipped—a damned sight more than was good for him—or the rest of us—or for her. I’ve told you how that poor child learned she’d married a downright hard boozer. The way she found out about women wasn’t much pleasanter.”
“I’d rather——” Traherne began.
The Colonel ignored it. “It was in Pindi. He had a month’s leave, and for some reason—I forget, if I knew—they spent it, of all places in the world, at Pindi—had a bungalow there. There was a show there just then, as if Pindi was not hot and uncomfortable enough without theater-going. Some of the troupe put up at the Dak Bungalow—among them a Jezebel they called ‘the leading lady.’ You’ve heard of Terése Carter?”
“No.”