“No, except poor Fay, you know. She has got to look forward to my going to her constantly.”
“But,” said Charles Littleton gently, “she is likely to be ill for many, many months, is she not? Forgive me for attempting to persuade you to anything, but you know you are not looking quite your usual self. You are not the woman I met at the Rivingtons. I don’t know if it is fresh air you need, but fresh air always helps every trouble, don’t you think? One can always see everything more clearly in the country. You are much too analytical and introspective. Blow the mental cobwebs away at Le Touquet.”
He felt practically sure she would come when he left, and expectation leapt high at the thought of the days with her. Her husband would be there, but he realized that he had no rival in her husband. He did not dread burnt-out fires, and Colin Paton would naturally pair with Gilbert. He was not an imaginative man, he had never had any time to dream, and he had always stifled any tender shoots of romance; but he longed to have her there with him, among the sweet-scented pines through which they would walk, on the fine stretches of grass and sand, playing the little white ball, by the sea-shore with its curling waves and long, long stretches of level, golden sand. Romance had come to him late in life, but now he did not stifle it. He would stake his all on this throw; he would make a fight for what he did not deserve to win. Perhaps Fate would be kind to him, perhaps she would forgive his early absorption in business, his blunt refusals of her invitations to enjoy life. He had rejected the possibilities of love before, now—now was there still a chance for him? If Claudia could be won—ah! the tall, spare American who walked along with alert, springy footsteps was not thinking of dollars or glory, only of the beauty of a woman’s heart and body which had swept him off his feet. His whole soul was invaded by her presence. She was his entire horizon.
So it happened that on Monday they all travelled together. Colin had approved heartily of her going, and as soon as she set foot on the Boulogne boat Claudia felt a little uplift that brightened her face and made it possible for her once again to take an interest in her fellow-creatures. Colin and Littleton were both good companions, and though Gilbert was rather morose—his humiliating experience had left a scar that would not heal—Claudia was happier than she had been for a long time.
She knew that she was happier, and she wondered why. Nothing was changed. Then she resolutely put questioning on one side. “I won’t think about myself or my stupid emotions,” she said vehemently to herself. “I’ll just be a brainless animal for awhile, at least”—truthfully—“I’ll try.”
She was saying this to herself when she noticed that Colin was regarding her.
“Were your lips moving in silent prayer?” he said jokingly, “or was it some great poem in glory of the sea?”
“Neither. I was taking myself to task. I was telling myself not to be an idiot, or rather”—laughingly—“to be one.”
“It’s rather involved. Is there any key?”
“Yes, I’m the key. If you know me well——” She stopped and coloured, for she remembered when he had said he knew her better than she knew herself. She turned her head away as she added hastily, “But anyway, it’s not worth solving. Who was it that said you should never try to understand women, you should be content with loving them?”