Mary kissed her very affectionately when she went away, but at the door she turned, frowning.
“I expect you wrote reams to Agneta,” she said, and then shut the door quickly before Elizabeth had time to answer.
David was out when Mary came, and it so happened that for two or three days they did not meet. He had come to dread the meeting. His passion for Mary was dead. He was afraid lest her presence, her voice, should raise the dead and bring it forth again in its garment of glamour and pain. Then on Sunday he came in to find Mary sitting there with Elizabeth in the twilight. She jumped up as he came in, and held out her hand.
“Well, David, you are a nice brother—never to have come and seen me. Busy? Yes, of course you’ve been busy, but you might have squeezed in a visit to me, amongst all the visits to sick old ladies and naughty little boys. Oh, do you know, Katie Ellerton has gone away? She took Ronnie to Brighton for a change, and then wrote and said she wasn’t coming back. I believe she is going to live with a brother who is a solicitor down there. And she’s selling her furniture, so if you want extra things you might get them cheap.”
“That’s Elizabeth’s department,” said David, laughing.
“Well, this is for you both. When will you come to dinner? On Tuesday? Yes, do. Talk about being busy. Edward’s busy, if you like. I never see him, and he’s quite worried. Liz, you remember Jack Webster? Well, you know he’s on the West Coast, and he’s sent Edward a whole case of things—frightfully exciting specimens, two centipedes he’s wanted for ever so long, and a spider that Jack says is new. And Edward has never even had time to open the case. That shows you! It’s accounts, I believe. Edward does hate accounts.”
When she had gone David sat silent for a long time. It was the old Mary, and prettier than ever. He had never seen her looking prettier, but his feeling for her was gone. He could look at her quite dispassionately, and wonder over the old unreasoning thrill. And what a chatterbox she was. Thank Heaven, she had had the sense to marry Edward, who was really not such a bad sort. Poor Edward. He laughed aloud suddenly, and Elizabeth looked up and asked:
“What is it?”
“Edward and the case he can’t open, and the centipedes he can’t play with,” he said, still laughing. “Poor old Edward! What it is to have a conscience. I wonder he doesn’t have a midnight orgy with the centipedes, but I suppose Mary sees to that.”
It was that night that David dreamed his dream again. All these months it had never come to him. Amongst the many dreams that had haunted his sick brain, there had been no hint of this one. He had wondered about it sometimes. And now it returned. In the first deep sleep that comes to a healthy man he dreamed it.