He looked up and down the road with haggard eyes, his ears strained for the sound of a car that might be bringing Chris. He could not understand why he had not come. He had counted on him with such passionate certainty that it never occurred to him for a moment that his note could have miscarried. His mind was racked with torturing doubts.
And all the time Marie's words were hammering against his brain, adding to his torture.
279 "It isn't that I don't love you—that I didn't mean it when I said I loved you. . . ."
Was that the truth? And if so, was he doing the right thing by sending her back to her husband?
Until to-night he had only tried to cheat himself with the belief that she loved him, but now everything seemed changed, distorted.
It was unusually dark, and a thick mist from the river made it difficult to see more than a yard ahead, in spite of the bright headlamps of the car.
Feathers had been tinkering with the engine in order to gain time, but he closed down the bonnet now, and came to the side of the car where Marie sat.
"Are you ready?" he asked hoarsely.
"Yes—" he had turned to move away, when she caught his arm.
"If—if it's good-bye—" she said, in such a faint whisper that he could hardly hear the words. "I should . . . oh, I should like to kiss you once more."