So after all neither of us said it, and I should never have the satisfaction of knowing if he had meant—
He opened the door, and I meekly got out and took the other seat. What was the use of making a fuss? Delphine disappeared behind the oak door, the engines whirled, and we were off again, steaming out of the village, and down the sloping road which led to the lovely sweep of the heath, the speed steadily increasing, until we were travelling at a good forty miles an hour. Four milestones flashed past before either of us spoke a word; then in desperation I made a beginning.
“She needs change, doesn’t she? It’s quite touching to see how it cheers her up.”
“She?” he repeated. “Who?” He turned his eyes on me as he spoke, and they were absolutely, genuinely blank. Astounding as it appeared, he really did not know.
“Delphine, of course! Who else could I mean?”
“Oh–oh. Yes, I had forgotten all about her.”
He might have been talking of a fly that for a moment had buzzed by his side. The cruel indifference of his manner stung me into quick retort.
“Yet you seemed very kind—you were very kind to her a few minutes ago. Do you always forget so quickly?”
A movement of his hand reduced the speed of the engine. We had left the village far behind, and the wide high road stretched before us like a brown ribbon, sloping gently up and down the grassy slopes. For miles ahead there was not a soul in view. Ralph Maplestone stared at me and I stared back at him. Seen close at hand, his plain face had an attraction of its own. It looked strong and honest; its tints were all fresh and clean, speaking of a healthy, out-of-door life. No little child had ever clearer eyes. They didn’t look so stern as I had believed.
“What have I to remember? Delphine came for a drive; I’m glad she enjoyed it, but it is over. Why should I think of her any more?”