“I am glad she has made a definite choice, at any rate,” said his uncle. “Hard hit, Usk? What do you mean to do.”
“Leave this to-morrow, unless you or Aunt Ernestine want me for anything.”
“Why, where are you off to?”
“Only to London. My father will be busy with this Bill of his, and I daresay I can help him a little.”
“Right. Throw yourself into it. Work as hard as you can. But don’t you think such a sudden departure will seem a little marked?”
“I don’t know. I can’t help it.” Usk wondered why his uncle was looking at him with such a curious, meditative gaze. “I couldn’t stay here and meet them every day.”
“I suppose not. The natural instinct is to hide yourself, no doubt. But don’t give way to it more than you can help. It’ll soon wear off, and you will find some one who will compensate you for everything.”
“Never!” said Usk, so tragically that Cyril only restrained a smile with difficulty. “I may marry, to please my father and mother, but I can never feel again to any woman as I have done to Félicia.”
“Don’t be too sure. Why, if you stayed on here for a day or two, you might even find your heart caught at the rebound almost at once.”
“If you knew how I have loved and—and believed in Félicia, you wouldn’t say that—and I thought she loved me. How could I ever trust a woman again who said she cared for me? I believe these French marriages are better, after all. If you don’t love a woman, it can’t hurt so much when she plays you false.”