“I'm a very fortunate man,” he said, suddenly. “They're standing squarely behind me, at home. It's the women behind the army that will make it count, Clayton.”
Clayton said nothing.
“Which reminds me,” went on the rector, “that I find Mrs. Valentine has gone away. I called on her to-day, and she has given up her apartment. Do you happen to know where she is? She has left no address.”
“Gone away?” Clayton repeated. “Why, no. I hadn't heard of it.”
There in the busy street he felt a strange sense of loneliness. Always, although he did not see her, he felt her presence. She walked the same streets. For the calling, if his extremity became too great, he could hear her voice over the telephone. There was always the hope, too, of meeting her. Not by design. She had forbidden that. But some times perhaps God would be good to them both, if they earned it, and they could touch hands for a moment.
But—gone!
“You are certain she left no address?”
“Quite certain. She has stored her furniture, I believe.”
There was a sense of hurt, then, too. She had made this decision without telling him. It seemed incredible. A dozen decisions a day he made, and when they were vital there was always in his mind the question as to whether she would approve or not. He could not go to her with them, but mentally he was always consulting with her, earning her approbation. And she had gone without a word.
“Do you think she has gone to France?” He knew his voice sounded stiff and constrained.