“He ain’t in love with her, bud.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Set down, bud. Better drink—”
“No.—Ain’t been any saint, myself. Girls are different.—Maybe he’s a nice fellow.—Took it nice about the play being closed.—I’m all right, Olive. Sort of a shock.”
He walked on. Then he was too tired to walk and Bernamer made him sit in the chair by the hearth. He stared at the blue rug and it seemed to clear his head. He became immobile, watching a white thread. The world centred on this wriggle of white on the blue down. He lapsed into dullness, knowing that Gurdy stood close to him. He should think of things to say, consolations. The boy must be in tortures. He was dull, empty.
Bernamer beckoned Olive. They went out of the library and the farmer shut the door without jarring the silver handle. Olive found herself dizzy. She said, “You have something to—”
“Let’s get downstairs where I can smoke. You’re sick. This is as bad on you—”
He helped her downstairs into the drawing room and was gone, came back with water in which she tasted brandy. The big man lit his cigarette and spoke in a drawl like Mark’s but heavier.
“I don’t understand this business. The little fool says she’s been in love with this feller a long time—a couple of years. He ain’t made love to her ’til last night. Well?”
“I don’t understand it any more than do you. I’m—horrified. I knew she admired his acting. He’s handsome. Very handsome.”