“I am going to Paris; I can’t live without him any longer.”
They were true anyway. She was going to Paris because she felt she could no longer live without Raymond.
She opened her eyes with a little gasp; they were her own words. She remembered that she had written them in the note she had left on the pincushion for June.
Poor June! She would be angry. And Micky.... A little throb touched her heart. She had not been very 218 kind to Micky. She hoped he would soon forget her. Her eyes closed again.
How long did it take to get to Paris? She had not the least idea. She had not got much money with her; she tried to remember how much, but somehow her brain refused to act; she took out her purse and tipped its contents into her lap. She started to count it, but after a moment she gave it up with a helpless feeling and put it all back again.
“Tubby Clare’s little widow....” Who was Tubby Clare? she wondered. She laughed foolishly. What a name!
But he had left his widow a great deal of money, and money was everything nowadays. Nobody could be happy without money; Raymond had told her that months ago; a man with money has the whole world at his feet, so he had said.
She thought of Micky––he was one of the richest men in London, and yet he was not happy. She had never thought that he looked happy; she wondered if it was really because he loved her.
She wished she could stop thinking. She was so tired, she wanted to sleep; but the wheel of thought went on and on in her brain.
The miles seemed to crawl by. Soon the fields and open country were left behind; the houses were closer together; presently they crowded one another, almost jostling each other out of the way, it seemed.