“My rooms are only just round the corner.” She shut the door, and for the first time we looked at one another. I could not say that I was nervous, but there was certainly, to me, a something strange in the atmosphere. Last night seemed a long way off and somehow a little unreal. I suppose I must have shown this in my manner, for she suddenly broke what had amounted to a distinct pause by giving a little laugh. “Peter,” she said, “you’re embarrassed.” I denied the charge warmly, but without real conviction. I was embarrassed. “Then you ought to be,” she said. “Last night, when I was looking my very best in a lovely dress, you asked me to marry you. Now you see me again in cold blood, and you’re wondering how you can back out of it without hurting my feelings.”
I smiled. She did not. I ceased to smile. She was looking at me in a very peculiar manner.
“Peter,” she said, “are you sure?”
“My dear old Cynthia,” I said, “what’s the matter with you?”
“You are sure?” she persisted.
“Absolutely, entirely sure.” I had a vision of two large eyes looking at me out of a photograph. It came and went in a flash.
I kissed Cynthia.
“What quantities of hair you have,” I said. “It’s a shame to cover it up.” She was not responsive. “You’re in a very queer mood today, Cynthia,” I went on. “What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Out with it. Something has gone wrong.” An idea flashed upon me. “Er—has your mother—is your mother very angry about—”
“Mother’s delighted. She always liked you, Peter.”
I had the self-restraint to check a grin.
“Then what is it?” I said. “Tired after the dance?”
“Nothing as simple as that.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s so difficult to put it into words.”
“Try.”
She was playing with the papers on the table, her face turned away. For a moment she did not speak.
“I’ve been worrying myself, Peter,” she said at last. “You are so chivalrous and unselfish. You’re quixotic. It’s that that is troubling me. Are you marrying me just because you’re sorry for me? Don’t speak. I can tell you now if you will just let me say straight out what’s in my mind. We have known each other for two years now. You know all about me. You know how—how unhappy I am at home. Are you marrying me just because you pity me and want to take me out of all that?”
“My dear girl!”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I answered it two minutes ago when you asked me if—”
“You do love me?”
“Yes.”
All this time she had been keeping her face averted, but now she turned and looked into my eyes with an abrupt intensity which, I confess, startled me. Her words startled me more.
“Peter, do you love me as much as you loved Audrey Blake?”
In the instant which divided her words from my reply my mind flew hither and thither, trying to recall an occasion when I could have mentioned Audrey to her. I was convinced that I had not done so. I never mentioned Audrey to anyone.
There is a grain of superstition in the most levelheaded man. I am not particularly levelheaded, and I have more than a grain in me. I was shaken. Ever since I had asked Cynthia to marry me, it seemed as if the ghost of Audrey had come back into my life.
“Good Lord!” I cried. “What do you know of Audrey Blake?”
She turned her face away again.
“Her name seems to affect you very strongly,” she said quietly.
I recovered myself.
“If you ask an old soldier,” I said, “he will tell you that a wound, long after it has healed, is apt to give you an occasional twinge.”
“Not if it has really healed.”
“Yes, when it has really healed—when you can hardly remember how you were fool enough to get it.”
She said nothing.
“How did you hear about—it?” I asked.
“When I first met you, or soon after, a friend of yours—we happened to be talking about you—told me that you had been engaged to be married to a girl named Audrey Blake. He was to have been your best man, he said, but one day you wrote and told him there would be no wedding, and then you disappeared; and nobody saw you again for three years.”
“Yes,” I said: “that is all quite true.”
“It seems to have been a serious affair, Peter. I mean—the sort of thing a man would find it hard to forget.”
I tried to smile, but I knew that I was not doing it well. It was hurting me extraordinarily, this discussion of Audrey.
“A man would find it almost impossible,” I said, “unless he had a remarkably poor memory.”
“I didn’t mean that. You know what I mean by forget.”
“Yes,” I said, “I do.”
She came quickly to me and took me by the shoulders, looking into my face.
“Peter, can you honestly say you have forgotten her—in the sense I mean?”
“Yes,” I said.
Again that feeling swept over me—that curious sensation of being defiant against myself.
“She does not stand between us?”
“No,” I said.
I could feel the effort behind the word. It was as if some subconscious part of me were working to keep it back.
“Peter!”
There was a soft smile on her face; as she raised it to mine I put my arms around her.
She drew away with a little laugh. Her whole manner had changed. She was a different being from the girl who had looked so gravely into my eyes a moment before.
“Oh, my dear boy, how terribly muscular you are! You’ve crushed me. I expect you used to be splendid at football, like Mr. Broster.”
I did not reply at once. I cannot wrap up the deeper emotions and put them back on their shelf directly I have no further immediate use for them. I slowly adjusted myself to the new key of the conversation.
“Who’s Broster?” I asked at length.
“He used to be tutor to”—she turned me round and pointed—“to that.”
I had seen a picture standing on one of the chairs when I
