“I can’t quite understand,” said Myra.
“I wish you would take some interest in the matter.”
“My interest is your interest. If you never want to see him again, what does it matter where he is? Perhaps you’re afraid he’ll come back to you?”
At the elder woman’s suggestion, the fear gripped her with dreadful suddenness. There had not yet been time for thought of such a possibility. If he had lied about fighting for Polish freedom, what truth was there in his perfervid declaration of the severance of his life from hers? She had been right in her analysis of his character. The curtain down on whatever comedy he might be now enacting, he would present himself unexpectedly before her with specious explanations of the past, and another glittering scenario of illusion. And with his reappearance would come exposure. She had pledged her word to Rowington.
She seized Myra by the wrist. “Do you think he will?”
“You are afraid,” said Myra.
“Yes. Dreadfully afraid.”
“I don’t think you need be,” said Myra.
Olivia flung away. “You take his part, just like Major Olifant. Neither of you seem to understand.” She turned. “Don’t you see the horror of it?”
“I’ve seen lots of horrors in my time,” replied Myra placidly. “But I shan’t see this one. He’s gone for good, dearie. You may be sure of that.”