“Everything.” She threw a hard laugh at him. “Everything—No. 4658 and all.”
“You didn’t?”
“I did. It is your fault. I couldn’t marry him, Eddie. I had to come. He wished it. He knows everything. He sent me.”
“He sent you to me?”
“Yes.” She was growing deadly pale. “Don’t you want me? I can go away—but not to Folly Corner. That is finished.”
He looked troubled, stroking and tugging the coal-black, silky mustache. He raised his eyes to her, then dropped them to the ground.
She had fallen back, her lids half fallen. It was a hot day; it had been a long journey. She was very tired, quite faint. She didn’t think she cared much, now that he evidently didn’t. Yet, never for a moment did she regret leaving Jethro; never for a moment entertain the idea of going back. She shut her eyes, listening quite listlessly to the rumble of life below. Her fate had long ago passed out of her own hands. She was a chattel in spirit; although free in letter. Let him settle what he liked.
She was roused by a kiss on her mouth. Edred was on the lounge. His face was tender—the bold, assured tenderness that always made her happy.
“Good little girl,” he said, in the half-sneering, half-caressing voice which was his nearest approach to adoration. “Good little girl to come. You must stay with me. I’ve missed you, Pam. You had the telegram?”
She let her head stay on his arm; she stretched her dusty feet out wearily, with a gesture of absolute content.