‘Mrs Gull will do nicely, Sheila. It’s very good of you to have given me so much thought.’ A long and rather arduous pause followed.
‘Oh, one other thing, Arthur. You sent out to Mr Critchett—do you remember?—the night you first came home. I think, too, after the first awful shock, when we were sitting in our bedroom, you actually referred to—to violent measures. You will promise me, I may perhaps at least ask that, you will promise me on your word of honour, for Alice’s sake, if not for mine, to do nothing rash.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Lawford, sinking lower even than he had supposed possible into the thin and lightless chill of ennui—‘nothing rash.’
Sheila rose with a sigh only in part suppressed. ‘I have not seen Mr Bethany again. I think, however, it would be better to let Harry know; I mean, dear, of your derangement. After all, he is one of the family—at least, of mine. He will not interfere. He would, perhaps quite naturally, be hurt if we did not take him into our confidence. Otherwise there is no pressing cause for haste, at least for another week or so. After that, I suppose, something will have to be done. Then there’s Mr Wedderburn; wouldn’t it be as well to let him know that at least for the present you are quite unable to think of returning to town? That, too, in time will have to be arranged, I suppose, if nothing happens meanwhile; I mean if things don’t come right. And I do hope, Arthur, you will not set your mind too closely on what may only prove false hopes. This is all intensely painful to me; of course, to us both.’
Again Lawford, even though he did not turn to confront it, became conscious of the black veil turned towards him tentatively, speculatively, impenetrably.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll write to Wedderburn; he’s had his ups and downs too.’
‘I always rather fancied so,’ said Sheila reflectively, ‘he looks rather a—a restless man. Oh, and then again,’ she broke off quickly, ‘there’s the question of money. I suppose—it is only a conjecture—I suppose it would be better to do nothing in that direction just for the present. Ada has now gone to the Bank. Fifty pounds, Arthur; it is out of my own private account—do you think that will be enough, just, of course, for your present needs?’
‘As a bribe, hush-money, or a thank-offering, Sheila?’ murmured her husband wearily.
‘I don’t follow you,’ replied the discreet voice from beneath the veil.
He did actually turn this time and glance steadily over his shoulder. ‘How long are you going for? and where?’