“Yes,” said Eve.
He shook his head. “Nothing. I—er. No, nothing.”
It was the first time he had spoken that morning. They had sat opposite each other in silence, and three times he had opened his lips as if about to speak, only to close them again.
They were both near, perilously near, saying many things to each other, but that unexplainable conversational barrier which holds up the traffic of speech had risen between them. For six days it had been thus, six days in which they had not expressed a word that was not commonplace.
That night at the club it had seemed easy enough to Wynne to come and tell his wife that red blood was coursing in his veins, and white carelessness had thrown an arm about his shoulders. It had seemed a simple and an honest confession. She was concerned in him, and had a right to know. Yet try as he would his pluck broke down before the ordeal. He could do no more than look at her furtively and postpone.
Wynne hated himself when he shirked a deed. Want of courage galled him, and the knowledge that he lacked the temerity to put his intentions into words seemed to clip the wings of the new mad impulses which possessed him.
All the while Eve knew there was something he wanted to say, but she could not fathom what manner of thing it might be. Thus from his silence grew her own, each waiting for the other to begin.
The day before he had telephoned to the Cosmopolis for rooms. He and Esme were going down by the 9.15 that night. As an understudy it was easy for her to be released from appearing at the theatre on the Saturday. If Eve were to be told it would have to be at once, for the appointment with the British Drama Association was at eleven o’clock.
He put a cigarette in his mouth and tapped his pocket for matches.
“Empty,” he said.