“Let’s go in the trophy room. Nobody there, as a rule. And your dad is on the porch.”
“Is he? All right.”
He followed her into the place. Cases of silver cups gleamed dully there. A sailfish on the wall forever held at sword’s point the august head of a moose. Jimmie pulled the two most comfortable chairs into the least conspicuous corner, and brought an ash stand, and they sat down. He was trembling unashamedly. For a minute they looked at each other.
Audrey spoke. “I got tired of waiting—again.”
She sounded genuine. She seemed thinner and paler, as if waiting had caused her severe strain. That was the trouble with her act. She believed it; consequently, its effects upon her were real. The fact that it was an act now seemed to Jimmie a very great tragedy. Tragic, because the sight of her made him realize how extraordinary she would be if only she were sincere and unselfish.
Jimmie ignored her words about waiting. “I got to know your dad—a little—hanging around here.”
“You did? You mean, he talked to you?” She thought for a moment. “What did he want? It must have been something.”
“Wanted to know about life—and death—in the RAF.”
He had expected that she would understand. Instead, she frowned. “He did? That’s odd! Indulging the more carnivorous side of his nature, I guess. Some people have no scruples!”
“He wasn’t carnivorous. He was charming.”