Part 23 (1/2)

”She has no very strong faith in men. Perhaps you noticed as much.”

”No.”

”I did not agree with her. I had the glove. It would be--amusing to know whether she was right or whether I was. I sent it to you.”

”Just to prove whether I should keep my word or not?”

”Yes,” said Miranda.

”Just for your amus.e.m.e.nt, in a word?”

”Amus.e.m.e.nt was the word I chose.”

”I see, I see.” His voice was lifeless, his face dull and stony.

Miranda moved uneasily as she watched him; but he did not notice her movement or regard her with any suspicion. His thoughts and feelings were m.u.f.fled. He seemed to be standing somewhere a long way outside himself and contemplating the two people here in the room with a deal of curiosity, and with perhaps a little pity; of which pity the woman had her share with the man. ”I see,” he continued. ”It was all a sham?”

Miranda glanced at him, and from him to the glove. ”Even the glove was a sham,” she said quickly. ”Look at it.”

He bent down and lifted it from her knees. Then he drew up a chair to the table, sat down, and examined the glove. Miranda hitched her chair closer to the table, too, and propping her elbows there, supported her chin upon her hands.

”You see that the glove is fresh,” she said.

”It has been worn,” answered Charnock. ”The fingers have been shaped by wearing.”

”It was worn by me for ten minutes in this room the day I posted it to you.”

”But the tear?” he asked with a momentary quickening of speech.

”I tore it.”

”I see.” He laid the glove upon the table. ”And the other glove--the one you wore that night--the one I tore upon the balcony over St.

James's Park? It was you I met that night in London? Or wasn't it?”

The question was put without any sarcasm, but with the same dull curiosity which had marked his other questions, and on her side she answered it simply as she had answered the others. ”Yes, it was I whom you met, and the glove you speak of was thrown away.”

It seemed that he had come to the end of his questions, for he sat for a little, drumming with his fingers on the table. Once he looked up and towards the window, as though his very eyes needed the relief of the wide expanse of valley.

”Now will you go? Please,” said Miranda, gently, and the next moment regretted that she had spoken.

”Oh, yes, I will go,” he answered. ”I will go back to Algeciras, and from Algeciras to England.” He was not looking at her, and so noticed nothing of the spasm of pain which for a second convulsed her face at his literal acceptation of her prayer. ”But before I go, tell me;” and the questions began again.

”You say you need no one?”

”No one.”

”Then why did you cry out a minute ago, 'It's the friend I want, not the lover'? You were not amusing yourself then. Why, too, did you--this afternoon in the garden, perhaps you remember--when the flowers fell on to the ground between us? Neither were you amusing yourself then.”

Miranda drew the glove away from where it lay in front of him; absently she began to slip it over her hand, and then becoming aware of what she did, and of certain a.s.sociations with that action at this moment, she hurriedly stripped it off.

”Perhaps I have no right to press you,” he said; ”but I should like to know.”