She answered that she had been in the drawing-room since tea-time.
“You came here straight from the drawing-room?” I said.
She replied, “Yes.”
Then, with an indifferent air which hid real anxiety, I said:
“By the way, Margot, have you been into that room again—the room you fancied you recollected?”
“No, never,” she answered, withdrawing herself from my arms. “I don’t wish to go there. Make haste, Ronald, and dress. It is nearly dinner-time, and I am ready.” And she turned and left me.
She had told me a lie. All my feelings of uneasiness and discomfort returned tenfold.
That evening was the most wretched one, the only wretched one, I had ever spent with her.
I am tired of writing. I will continue my task to-morrow. It takes me longer than I anticipated. Yet even to tell everything to myself brings me some comfort. Man must express himself; and despair must find a voice.