Part 25 (2/2)

Could Opal suspect, I wondered, the truth about the broken love story?

Somehow I thought not. I might be mistaken, but the rather patronizing way in which she'd spoken of Joyce didn't seem like that of a jealous woman. If Joyce and she had got upon each other's nerves lately because of Robert, I imagined that suspicion had been on the other side. Joyce would have been more than human if she could go on accepting hospitality from a woman who so plainly showed her love for Robert Lorillard.

We raced back to London, for I feared that Robert's mood might change for the worse--that an autumn chill of remorse might s.h.i.+ver through his veins.

All was well, however--very well. I made him talk to me of Joyce nearly the whole way; and at the end of the journey I had him waiting for her in the drawing room of my flat before he quite knew what had happened to him.

My secretary was in her own room, writing her own letters as she'd said she would do.

”Back already, Princess?” she exclaimed, jumping up when I'd knocked and been told to come in. ”Why, you've hardly more than had time to get there and back, it seems, to say nothing of lunch!”

”I haven't had any lunch,” I said.

”No lunch? Poor darling! Why----”

”I was too busy,” I broke in. ”And I wanted to get back.”

”Only this morning you were longing to go!”

”I know! It does sound chameleon-like. But second thoughts are often best. Come into the drawing room and you'll see that mine were--much best.”

She came, in all innocence. I opened the door. I thrust her in. I exclaimed: ”Bless you, my children!” and shut the two in together.

This was taking it boldly for granted that Joyce was as much in love with Robert as he with her. But why be early Victorian and ignore the lovely, naked truth, instead of late Georgian and save beating round the bush for both of the lovers?

Those words of mine figuratively flung them into each other's arms, where--according to my idea--the sooner they were the better!

I should think if my words missed fire, their eyes didn't miss, judging from what I'd seen in hers when speaking of him, in his when speaking of her! And certainly the pair of them couldn't have wasted _much_ time in foolish preliminaries; for in about half an hour Joyce appeared in the dining room, where I was eating an _immense_ luncheon.

”Oh, Princess!” she breathed, hovering just over the threshold; and instantly Robert loomed behind her. ”It's too wonderful. It can't be true.”

Robert didn't speak. He merely gazed. Years had rolled off him since morning. He looked an inspired boy, with a dash of silver powder on his hair. Slipping his arm round Joyce's waist he brought her to me. As I sat at the table they both knelt down close to my feet, and each earnestly kissed one of my hands! It would have been a beautiful effect if I hadn't choked, trying wildly to bolt a mouthful of something, and had to be slapped on the back. That choke was a disguised blessing, however, for it made us all laugh when I got my breath; and when you're on the top pinnacle of a great emotion, it's a safe outlet to laugh!

My suggestion was, that n.o.body but our three selves should share the secret, and that the wedding--to be hurried on--should be sprung as a surprise upon the public. Robert and Joyce agreed on general principles; but each made one exception.

Robert said that he felt it would be ”caddish” to make a bid for happiness without telling the d.u.c.h.ess of Stane what was in his mind. She couldn't reasonably object to his marrying again, and wouldn't object, he argued; but if he didn't confide in her she'd have a right to think him a coward.

Joyce's one exception--of all people on earth!--was Opal Fawcett! And when I shrieked ”Why?” she'd only say that she ”owed a debt of grat.i.tude to Opal.” Therefore Opal had a right to know before any one else that she was engaged.

The girl didn't add ”to Robert Lorillard,” but a flash of intuition like a searchlight showed me the meaning behind her words. Living in the same house with Opal, eating Opal's bread and salt (very little else, I daresay!), Joyce had guessed Opal's secret--or had been forced to hear a confidence. That, and nothing else, was the reason why she wouldn't be engaged to Robert ”behind Opal's back!”

Well, I hope I'm not precisely a coward myself, but I didn't envy Joyce Arnold and Robert Lorillard their self-appointed tasks. They were carried out, however, with soldierly promptness the day after the engagement, and nothing terrific happened--or at least, was reported.

”Opal was very sweet,” Joyce announced, vouchsafing no details of the interview.

”The--d.u.c.h.ess was very sensible,” was Robert's description of what pa.s.sed between him and his exalted ex-mother-in-law.

”I suppose you asked them not to tell?” was my one question.

”Oh, Opal _won't_ tell!” exclaimed Joyce; and I believed that she was right. According to Opal's view, _telling_ things only helped them to happen.

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