Instead he reviewed the whole course of their acquaintance and failed to find any spot where he had not given evidence of her importance in his life, and he could not imagine why it was necessary to put into formal words a fact so vital and so obvious. He had lost her; that was all there was to be said, and he must take his medicine like a man, and the best thing to do was to get out of it and forget it.
These reflections had brought him to the edge of a stream and, as he recovered his mental poise, he was surprised to find that it was a part of Rock Creek and that he had, therefore, wandered many miles out of his way. He stood still for a moment, allowing his eyes to follow the lovely rivulet with a crowding recollection of its beauties that had first appealed to his childish eyes, then to his boyish fancy, and now gave him almost a sensation of comfort. It happened to be one of those charming spots where the creek, so often tranquil and limpid, was hurrying over stones and sending up little clouds of spray as the miniature waves dashed through the narrow gorge between the rocks, where the graceful boughs of a weeping birch drooped far down over it and dropped their leaves into the stream. The gentle murmur of the swift flowing current, the soft rustle of the abundant foliage overhead, and the sweet, shrill cry of a catbird, were the only sounds he heard. There was something uplifting in the solitude, in the natural beauty of the scene, and, for the first time since the shock of Rachel's announcement, Charter recalled himself to a more normal mood.
This was still with him, clothing familiar objects with the grim outlines of reality, when an hour later he rode into the city on the trolley and made his way at last to the Van Citters' house on Dupont Circle, where he had been invited to make his home during his stay in Washington. It was now late afternoon, or rather early evening; the familiar drawing-room was cool and dim and he found Pamela yawning over the latest novel.
She greeted him with a fusilade of reproaches; where had he been, what had he been doing? They had been expecting him for hours; Paul had gone out a second time to inquire at the War Department; a dozen people had been to see him and gone away disappointed. Charter found it difficult to answer the questions, and even more difficult to keep his sang-froid under his cousin's searching gaze, for Pamela had detected his heightened color and gave him swift, birdlike glances that were plainly suspicious.
"You must remember that I had a number of things to see to," he parried, "besides, I went to the White House."
"Don't tell me that took all day—unless you unearthed a Filipino conspiracy."
"Come, Pamela, give me a cup of tea; I know I've been ungrateful not to report sooner, for it's awfully good of you and Paul to ask me here, but I'll try to make the most of your hospitality the few days that I'm likely to be in the city."
She gazed at him over the teacup, the sugar tongs suspended in mid-air. "You don't mean to say that you're ordered off again?"
He shook his head, smiling faintly at her amazed attitude. "No, but you mustn't expect me to spend my time loafing around Washington; you know I was never intended for a carpet-knight."
"I wonder if you know that there was a report that you were engaged to Mrs. Prynne?"