Stephen said: “I’d rather we didn’t discuss Mrs. Crossby, because, you see, she’s my friend.” And her voice was as icy cold as her hands.
“Oh, of course if you’re feeling like that about it—” laughed Violet, “no, but honest, she is keen on Roger.”
When Violet had gone, Stephen sprang to her feet, but her sense of direction seemed to have left her, for she struck her head a pretty sharp blow against the side of a heavy bookcase. She stood swaying with her hands pressed against her temples. Angela and Roger Antrim—those two—but it couldn’t be, Violet had been purposely lying. She loved to torment, she was like her brother, a bully, a devil who loved to torment—it couldn’t be—Violet had been lying.
She steadied herself and leaving the room and the house, went and fetched her car from the stables. She drove to the telegraph office at Upton: “Come back, I must see you at once,” she wired, taking great care to prepay the reply, lest Angela should find an excuse for not answering.
The clerk counted the words with her stump of a pencil, then she looked at Stephen rather strangely.
II
The next morning came Angela’s frigid answer: “Coming home Monday fortnight not one day sooner please no more wires Ralph very much upset.”
Stephen tore the thing into a hundred fragments and then hurled it away. She was suddenly shaking all over with uncontrollable anger.
III
Right up to the moment of Angela’s return that hot anger supported Stephen. It was like a flame that leapt through her veins, a flame that consumed and yet stimulated, so that she purposely fanned the fire from a sense of self preservation.
Then came the actual day of arrival. Angela must be in London by now, she would certainly have travelled by the night express. She would catch the 12:47 to Malvern and then motor to Upton—it was nearly twelve. It was afternoon. At 3:17 Angela’s train would arrive at Great Malvern—it had arrived now—in about twenty minutes she would drive past the very gates of Morton. Half-past four. Angela must have got home; she was probably having tea in the parlour—in the little oak parlour with its piping bullfinch whose cage always stood near the casement window. A long time ago, a lifetime ago, Stephen had blundered into that parlour, and Tony had barked, and the bullfinch had piped a sentimental old German tune—but that was surely a lifetime ago. Five o’clock. Violet Antrim had obviously lied; she had lied on purpose to torment Stephen—Angela and Roger—it couldn’t be; Violet had lied because she liked to torment. A quarter past five. What Was Angela doing now? She was near, just a few miles away—perhaps she was ill, as she had not written; yes, that must be it, of course Angela was ill. The persistent, aching hunger of the eyes. Anger, what was it? A folly, a delusion, a weakness that crumbled before that hunger. And Angela was only a few miles away.
She went up to her room and unlocked a drawer from which she took the little white case. Then she slipped the case into her jacket pocket.
IV
She found Angela helping her maid to unpack; they appeared to be all but snowed under by masses of soft, inadequate garments. The bedroom smelt strongly of Angela’s scent, which was heavy yet slightly pungent.
She glanced up from a tumbled heap of silk stockings: “Hallo, Stephen!” Her greeting was casually friendly.
Stephen said: “Well, how are you after all these weeks? Did you have a good journey down from Scotland?”
The maid said: “Shall I wash your new crêpe de Chine nightgowns, ma’am? Or ought they to go to the cleaners?”
Then, somehow, they all fell silent.
To break this suggestive and awkward silence, Stephen inquired politely after Ralph.
“He’s in London on business for a couple of days; he’s all right, thanks,” Angela answered briefly, and she turned once more to sorting her stockings.
Stephen studied her. Angela was not looking well, her mouth had a childish droop at the corners; there were quite new shadows, too, under her eyes, and these shadows accentuated her pallor. And as though that earnest gaze made her nervous, she suddenly bundled the stockings together with a little sound of impatience.
“Come on, let’s go down to my room!” And turning to her maid: “I’d rather you washed the new nightgowns, please.”
They went down the wide oak stairs without speaking, and into the little oak panelled parlour. Stephen closed the door; then they faced each other.
“Well, Angela?”
“Well, Stephen?” And after a pause: “What on earth made you send that absurd telegram? Ralph got hold of the thing and began to ask questions. You are such an almighty fool sometimes—you knew perfectly well that I couldn’t come back. Why will you behave as though you were six, have you no common sense? What’s it all about? Your methods are not only infantile—they’re dangerous.”
Then taking Angela firmly by the shoulders, Stephen turned her so that she faced the light. She put her question with youthful crudeness; “Do you find Roger Antrim physically attractive—do you find that he attracts you that way more than I do?” She waited calmly, it
