“Ah, but you’ll never marry me.”
The sincerity of conviction was in Lucian’s voice; Dolly had that one fleeting glimpse into his fundamental creed. While he lived he would never give up hope, but behind it he accepted the certainty that no hope of his would ever find fulfilment; such indelible characters had failure written upon his spirit. Dolly pitied him so much that she was almost ready to contradict his creed by the promise of herself. Almost, but not quite; the shadow of the change which she had felt that morning interfered to prevent her. Better to wait, she thought; better to deliberate and weigh, not act on the impulse of a mood. She did not speak, and Lucian’s golden chance passed.
“I don’t know whether I shall marry you or not,” she said. “I’ll write to you both; and at the end of the three months I’ll let you know, if you still care. There’s Bernard.”
It was not Bernard, however; Bernard was very late that morning. For the space of half an hour those two, who felt that their interview should have been neatly rounded off by the entrance of a third person, were forced to make conversation in the regions of small talk. Real life is not often appropriate in its arrangement of incidents. Eight o’clock struck before Bernard walked in, large and calm and hungry. Lucian disburdened himself of his message, which was merely an invitation to play billiards.
“I guess Farquhar must be pretty sick of teaching me,” said Bernard, cutting himself a round off the loaf; after which he supplied Dolly’s needs. “But I suppose he knows his own business best. I say, did you see that girl who took me in to supper last night?”
“Dinner, Bernard.”
“Dinner, then. Did you see her?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Who was she?” asked Lucian.
“Miss Angela Laurenson.”