She had loved him for so long, her life and his were so irrevocably 208 bound up together. How could she take this step that would sever the tie once and for all?
She wandered round the room aimlessly, picking up little things of his, looking at them, and putting them down again, and all the time the same unanswerable questions were going on in her mind.
If she stayed with him what was there for her in the future? She could only see more disillusionment and tears and sorrow, and if she went with Feathers . . . Marie laughed brokenly, the tears running down her cheeks. How could she go with Feathers when he had not asked her? And suddenly she remembered the look in his eyes as he said good-night to her an hour or two ago.
She had tried to believe that it was not farewell and renunciation that she had read in them, but she had known that it was. He was stronger than she—his heart might ache, but he would not dishonor his friend. He would walk away with a smile on his lips, and nobody would ever know what he suffered.
If she tried to break down his strength she was not worthy of his love, and suddenly Marie Celeste hid her face in her hands and broke into bitter crying, which yet brought tears of healing to her heart. She would be worthy of him—she would not be a coward, snatching greedily at the one hope of happiness offered to her; she would go on, trying to be brave, trying to make the best of things.
She went back to her room, leaving the door ajar so that she could hear when Chris came in. He was very late—she heard the clock strike twelve, and then half-past, but still he did not come; and then—at twenty minutes past one she heard a taxi drive up to the door and voices on the path outside.
She pulled aside the blind and peered out, but it was too dark to distinguish anything. Then the cab drove away, and she heard the front door opening below and the sound of steps in the hall.
She crept out oh to the landing and looked over the banisters. She could see Chris, his hat pushed to the back of his head and the top 209 of a cigar stuck jauntily into the corner of his mouth, laughing immoderately, and swaying a little on his heels, as he resisted the other man's attempt to help him off with his coat.
Marie had never seen anyone the worse for drink in her life. Miss Chester had always brought her up in the belief that no gentleman ever took too much to drink. She would have been horrified if anyone had told her that most men of her acquaintance had, at one time or another, been helped home to bed. She stood clutching at the banisters, her face white with horror.
She did not know the man who was with Chris, so she hardly glanced at him. Her feet seemed glued to the spot and her eyes never left her husband's face.