‘My opal! How did it get there?’
Henry Judd cleared his throat.
‘I—er—I rather think, Rosy, my girl, you must have put it there yourself.’
Someone got up from the table and blundered out into the air. It was Naomi Carlton Smith. Mr Quin followed her.
‘But when? Do you mean—?’
Mr Satterthwaite watched her while the truth dawned on her. It took over two minutes before she got it.
‘You mean last year—at the theatre.’
‘You know,’ said Henry apologetically. ‘You do fiddle with things, Rosy. Look at you with the caviare today.’
Miss Nunn was painfully following out her mental processes.
‘I just slipped it in without thinking, and then I suppose I turned the box about and did the thing by accident, but then—but then—’ At last it came. ‘But then Alec Gerard didn’t steal it after all. Oh!’—a full-throated cry, poignant, moving—‘How dreadful!’
‘Well,’ said Mr Vyse, ‘that can be put right now.’
‘Yes, but he’s been in prison a year.’ And then she startled them. She turned sharp on the Duchess. ‘Who is that girl—that girl who has just gone out?’
‘Miss Carlton Smith,’ said the Duchess, ‘was engaged to Mr Gerard. She—took the thing very hard.’
Mr Satterthwaite stole softly away. The snow had stopped, Naomi was sitting on the stone wall. She had a sketch book in her hand, some coloured crayons were scattered around. Mr Quin was standing beside her.
She held out the sketch book to Mr Satterthwaite. It was a very rough affair—but it had genius. A kaleidoscopic whirl of snowflakes with a figure in the centre.
‘Very good,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
Mr Quin looked up at the sky.
‘The storm is over,’ he said. ‘The roads will be slippery, but I do not think there will be any accident—now.’
‘There will be no accident,’ said Naomi. Her voice was charged with some meaning that Mr Satterthwaite did not understand. She turned and smiled at him—a sudden dazzling smile. ‘Mr Satterthwaite can drive back with me if he likes.’
He knew then to what length desperation had driven her.
‘Well,’ said Mr Quin, ‘I must bid you goodbye.’
He moved away.
‘Where is he going?’ said Mr Satterthwaite, staring after him.
‘Back where he came from, I suppose,’ said Naomi in an odd voice.
‘But—but there isn’t anything there,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, for Mr Quin was making for that spot on the edge of the cliff where they had first seen him. ‘You know you said yourself it was the World’s End.’
He handed back the sketch book.
‘It’s very good,’ he said. ‘A very good likeness. But why—er—why did you put him in Fancy Dress?’
Her eyes met his for a brief second.
‘I see him like that,’ said Naomi Carlton Smith.
The Manhood of Edward Robinson
‘With a swing of his mighty arms, Bill lifted her right off her feet, crushing her to his breast. With a deep sigh she yielded her lips in such a kiss as he had never dreamed of—’
With a sigh, Mr Edward Robinson put down When Love is King and stared out of the window of the underground train. They were running through Stamford Brook. Edward Robinson was thinking about Bill. Bill was the real hundred per cent he-man beloved of lady novelists. Edward envied him his muscles, his rugged good looks and his terrific passions. He picked up the book again and read the description of the proud Marchesa Bianca (she who had yielded her lips). So ravishing was her beauty, the intoxication of her was so great, that strong men went down before her like ninepins, faint and helpless with love.
‘Of course,’ said Edward to himself, ‘it’s all bosh, this sort of stuff. All bosh, it is. And yet, I wonder—’
His eyes looked wistful. Was there such a thing as a world of romance and adventure somewhere? Were there women whose beauty intoxicated? Was there such a thing as love that devoured one like a flame?
‘This is real life, this is,’ said Edward. ‘I’ve got to go on the same just like all the other chaps.’
On the whole, he supposed, he ought to consider himself a lucky young man. He had an excellent berth—a clerkship in a flourishing concern. He had good health, no one dependent upon him, and he was engaged to Maud.
But the mere thought of Maud brought a shadow over his face. Though he would never have admitted it, he was afraid of Maud. He loved her—yes—he still remembered the thrill with which he had admired the back of her white neck rising out of the cheap four and elevenpenny blouse on the first occasion they had met. He had sat behind her at the cinema, and the friend he was with had known her and had introduced them. No doubt about it, Maud was very superior. She was good looking and clever and very lady-like, and she was always right about everything. The kind of girl, everyone said, who would make such an excellent wife.
Edward wondered whether the Marchesa Bianca would have made an excellent wife. Somehow, he doubted it. He couldn’t picture the voluptuous Bianca, with her red lips and her swaying form, tamely sewing on buttons, say, for the virile Bill. No, Bianca was Romance, and this was real life. He and Maud would be very happy together. She had so much common sense . . .
But all the same, he wished that she wasn’t quite so—well, sharp in manner. So prone to ‘jump upon him”.
It was, of course, her prudence and her common sense which made her do so. Maud was very sensible. And, as a rule, Edward was very sensible too, but sometimes—He had wanted to get married this Christmas, for instance. Maud had pointed out how much more prudent it would be to wait a while—a year or two, perhaps. His salary was not large. He had wanted to give her an expensive ring—she had been horror stricken, and had forced him to take it back and exchange it for a cheaper one. Her qualities were all excellent qualities, but sometimes Edward
