Part 47 (1/2)

”I'll tell you when I see you,” said he. ”I don't know the trains, but I'll come by the first. Your _concierge_ will look it up for you. Thanks very much. Good-bye.”'

”But, my dear fellow----” I began.

But I spoke into nothingness. He had rung off.

Auriol and I spent a comfortable evening together. There was no question of Lackaday. For her part, she raised none. For mine--why should I disturb her superbly regained balance with idle chatter about our morrow's meeting?

We talked of the past glories of the day; of an almost forgotten day of disastrous picnic in the mountains of North Wales, when her twelve-year-old sense of humour detected the artificial politeness with which I sought to cloak my sodden misery; of all sorts of pleasant far-off things; of the war; of what may be called the war-continuation-work in the devastated districts in which she was at present engaged. I reminded her of our fortuitous meetings, when she trudged by my side through the welter of rain and liquid mud, smoking the f.a.g-end of my last pipe of tobacco.

”One lived in those days,” she said with a full-bosomed sigh.

”By the dispensation of a merciful Providence,” I said, ”one hung on to a strand of existence.”

”It was fine!” she declared.

”It was--for the appropriate adjective,” said I, ”consult any humble member of the British Army.”

We had a whole, long evening's talk, which did not end until I left her in the train at Clermont-Ferrand.

On our midnight way thither, she said:

”Now I know you love me, Tony.”

”Why now?” I asked.

”How many people are there in the world whom you would see off by a midnight train, three or four miles from your comfortable bed?”

”Not many,” I admitted.

”That's why I want you to feel I'm grateful.” She sought my hand and patted it. ”I've been a dreadful worry to you. I've been through a hard time.”

This was her first and only reference during the day to the romance. ”I had to cut something out of my living self, and I couldn't help groaning a bit.

But the operation's over--and I'll never worry you again.”

At the station I packed her into the dark and already suffocating compartment. She announced her intention to sleep all night like a dog. She went off, in the best of spirits, to the work in front of her, which after all was a more reasonable cure than tossing about the Outer Hebrides in a five-ton yacht.

I drove home to bed and slept the sleep of the perfect altruist.

I was reading the _Moniteur du Puy de Dome_ on the hotel terrace next morning, when Lackaday was announced. He looked grimmer and more careworn than ever, and did not even smile as he greeted me. He only said gravely that it was good of me to let him come over. I offered him refreshment, which he declined.

”You may be wondering,” said he, ”why I have asked for this interview. But after all I have told you about myself, it did not seem right to leave you in ignorance of certain things. Besides, you've so often given me your kind sympathy, that, as a lonely man, I've ventured to trespa.s.s on it once more.”

”My dear Lackaday, you know that I value your friends.h.i.+p,” said I, not wis.h.i.+ng to be outdone in courteous phrase, ”and that my services are entirely at your disposal.”

”I had better tell you in a few words what has happened,” said he.

He told me.

Elodie had gone, disappeared, vanished into s.p.a.ce, like the pearl necklaces which Pet.i.t Patou used to throw at her across the stage.

”But how? When?” I asked, in bewilderment; for Lackaday and Elodie, as Les Pet.i.t Patou, seemed as indissoluble as William and Mary or Pommery and Greno.