The Garden of Enchantment faded from her mind like a forgotten dream. The sweet Arcadian make-believe alone rose up in ironical mockery, a scathing memory which seemed to flay the living heart of her. She sat huddled together in a corner of the cab, tortured and desperate. On either hand hung the doom of death. In the one case it would be lingering: the soul would die first; the man she loved would be tied to a living corpse; she would be a devastating curse to him instead of a blessing. In the other she could leave him in the fulness of their unsullied love. The years that the locust hath eaten would not stretch an impassable waste between them. In his sorrow there would be the imperishable sense of beauty. And for herself the quick end were better.
She was aroused to consciousness of external things by a husky voice addressing her from somewhere above her head. The cab had stopped at Connie's house in Bryanston Square. She descended, handed to the man the first coin in her purse that her fingers happened to grasp. He looked at it, said that he was sorry he had not change for a sovereign. She waved her hand vaguely, deaf to his words. The cabman, with a clear conscience, whipped up his horse smartly and drove off.
A figure on the doorstep raised his hat.
“How delightful of you to arrive at the very moment, Miss Hardacre! I am summoned back to America. I sail to-morrow. I was calling on the chance of being able to bid you good-bye.”
Norma collected her scattered wits and recognised Theodore Weever. She looked at him full in the eyes.
Her lips were parted; her breath came fast. He stretched out his hand to press the electric button, so as to gain admittance to the house. She touched his arm, restraining his action, and still stared at him.
“Wait,” she said at last. “I have something to say to you.”
“I am honoured,” he replied in his imperturbable way.
“Have you found your decorative wife, Mr. Weever?”
A sudden light shone lambently in his pale, expressionless blue eyes.