Vanna’s clear laugh rang out mockingly. To one who knew what it was to suffer from prostrating headache, which made it impossible to move, to speak, almost to breathe, the sight of Jean’s ducked, shaking head was irresistibly comic. She brushed aside the frail pretence.
“My dear, it’s no use. I see through you. Better confess at once. You don’t want to go. Why?”
Jean looked at her in silence. Her eyes dilated, the colour paled on the rounded cheeks. It was pretence no longer, but real unaffected earnest.
“Vanna, he frightens me—that Robert Gloucester! He behaved like, like they do, you know—at the end. It’s absurd, at the very first meeting. He couldn’t possibly—care! I don’t want to meet him again.”
“You didn’t like him, then?”
“Oh, yes, I did. Dreadfully. That’s just why—”
“Enigma! Will you graciously explain?”
“Edith!” said Jean, in a low voice, almost a whisper. It seemed treacherous to speak of Edith’s secret, but Vanna was as another self, to whom so far every thought had been confessed, and she was the most loyal of confidantes. Besides, if Robert Gloucester were to be successfully avoided, Vanna’s co-operation would be needed.
“I am sure Edith cares for him, and if she does, she has had such a long, long wait. Imagine how it would feel, to love a man with those eyes, and wait alone at the other end of the world for six long years! It would make me wretched to spoil Edith’s happiness; but if he came often, and looked at me like that, I—I should look back, Vanna, I know I should. I might make all the resolutions in the world, but they wouldn’t last. I’m a born flirt. It’s shocking, but it’s true; therefore you perceive there’s only one thing for it—to avoid temptation. You must go alone to-night, and say that I’m ill.”
“Which would bring Edith round post-haste to-morrow morning, accompanied by her guest. You must think of a better excuse than that if you really wish to avoid him, my dear,” replied Vanna derisively.