“I beseech you to do what you can for me,” she urged him.
“I don’t think there’s anyone in the Colony who wouldn’t do anything in the world for you, Mrs. Fane,” he answered.
He sent for a clerk and made enquiries. Then he nodded.
“I’m going to shift one or two people. I know you want to get home and I think we ought to do our best for you. I can give you a little cabin to yourself. I expect you’d prefer that.”
She thanked him. She left him with an elated heart. Flight: that was her only thought. Flight! She sent a cable to her father to announce her immediate return; she had already cabled to him to say that Walter was dead; and then went back again to the Townsends’ to tell Dorothy what she had done.
“We shall be dreadfully sorry to lose you,” the kind creature said, “but of course I understand that you want to be with your mother and father.”
Since her return to Hong Kong Kitty had hesitated from day to day to go to her house. She dreaded entering it again and meeting face to face the recollections with which it was peopled. But now she had no alternative. Townsend had arranged for the sale of the furniture and he had found someone eager to take on the lease, but there were all her clothes and Walter’s, for they had taken next to nothing to Mei-tan-fu, and there were books, photographs, and various odds and ends. Kitty, indifferent to everything and anxious to cut herself off completely from the past, realised that it would outrage the susceptibilities of the Colony if she allowed these things to go with the rest to an auction-room. They must be packed and sent to her. So after tiffin she prepared to go to the house. Dorothy, eager to give her help, offered to accompany her, but Kitty begged to be allowed to go alone. She agreed that two of Dorothy’s boys should come and assist in the packing.
The house had been left in charge of the head boy and he opened the door for Kitty. It was curious to go into her own house as though she were a stranger. It was neat and clean. Everything was in its place, ready for her use, but although the day was warm and sunny there was about the silent rooms a chill and desolate air. The furniture was stiffly arranged, exactly where it should be, and the vases which should have held flowers were in their places; the book which Kitty had laid face downwards she did not remember when still lay face downwards. It was as though the house had been left empty but a minute before and yet that minute was fraught with eternity so that you could not imagine that ever again that house would echo with talk and resound with laughter. On the piano the open music of a foxtrot seemed to wait to be played, but you had a feeling that if you struck the keys no sound would come. Walter’s room was as tidy as when he was there. On the chest of drawers were two large photographs of Kitty, one in her presentation dress and one in her wedding-gown.
But the boys fetched up the trunks from the box-room and she stood over them watching them pack. They packed neatly and quickly. Kitty reflected that in the two days she had it would be easy to get everything done. She must not let herself think; she had no time for that. Suddenly she heard a step behind her and turning round saw Charles Townsend. She felt a sudden chill at her heart.
“What do you want?” she said.
“Will you come into your sitting-room? I have something to say to you.”
“I’m very busy.”
“I shall only keep you five minutes.”
She said no more, but with a word to the boys to go on with what they were doing, preceded Charles into the next room. She did not sit down, in order to show him that she expected him not to detain her. She knew that she was very pale and her heart was beating fast, but she faced him coolly, with hostile eyes.
“What is it you want?”
“I’ve just heard from Dorothy that you’re going the day after tomorrow. She told me that you’d come here to do your packing and she asked me to ring up and find out if there was anything I could do for you.”
“I’m grateful to you, but I can manage quite well by myself.”
“So I imagined. I didn’t come here to ask you that. I came to ask if your sudden departure is due to what happened yesterday.”
“You and Dorothy have been very good to me. I didn’t wish you to think I was taking advantage of your good nature.”
“That’s not a very straight answer.”
“What does it matter to you?”
“It matters a great deal. I shouldn’t like to think that anything I’d done had driven you away.”
She was standing at the table. She looked down. Her eyes fell on the Sketch. It was months old now. It was that paper which Walter had stared at all through the terrible evening when—and Walter now was. … She raised her eyes.
“I feel absolutely degraded. You can’t possibly despise me as much as I despise myself.”
“But I don’t despise you. I meant every word that I said yesterday. What’s the good of running away like this? I don’t know why we can’t be good friends. I hate the idea of your thinking I’ve treated you badly.”
“Why couldn’t you leave me
