“She thinks I’m in Poland?”
“She doesn’t know you are here,” said Myra truthfully. “She doesn’t know where you are.”
“Or care?”
“Or care,” said Myra, and her tone was flat like that of a Fate.
For a while he was silent, accepting the finality of Myra’s words.
“You’ve left her in ignorance of my accident?”
“Yes,” said Myra. “Haven’t you done the same since you’ve recovered your wits?”
Her dry logic was unanswerable. Yet a man does not expect logic from an elderly waiting-woman. He passed a hand over his eyes and held it there for a long time, while Myra sat patient and unemotional. He understood nothing of her motives. For the moment he did not seek to understand them. One fact alone mattered. Olivia did not know. She had not, with horrible contempt, left him to die like a dog. By the thought of such a possibility he had wronged her. She might, with every reason, desire never to set eyes on him again—but of active cruelty he should have known her incapable.
Presently he withdrew his hand and turned to Myra. “My head’s not altogether right yet,” he said half-apologetically.
“I can quite believe it,” said Myra.