“Feeling very fit,” she returned, and waited once more.
He did not speak, just sat staring down at his rather tightly clenched hands.
She did notice then that he was looking old—years older than when she had last seen him. Bob was forty-two,—to-night he looked fifty. Jane was,—well, not even “Who’s Who” knew exactly how old Jane Goring was—any woman who will tell her right age will tell anything!—but she looked well under thirty.
The silence seemed to demand something of her.
“And you?” she queried politely.
He wheeled round in his corner. “That’s just what I’ve come to see you about,” he brought out. “Matter of fact, I waited until the last minute—didn’t want to bother you with it.”
“The last minute?”
“Yes. I’m pulling up stakes—beating it for Colorado to-morrow.”
At the back of Jane Goring’s brain, though even to herself she did not acknowledge it, flared a sudden flash of relief. Like a jagged streak of lightning across a summer sky it was there—and gone.
[73]
] “Where—in Colorado?”