Part 76 (1/2)
”Helen, dear, did you say 'married to him'?”
”Yes, I did.”
Rupert lighted one cigarette from another and carefully threw the old one into the fire.
”When?” John asked. He was still staring at her.
”I forget the date.”
”Won't you tell us about it?” Rupert said. He leaned against the mantelpiece and puffed quickly.
”There's nothing more to tell.”
”But when was it?” John persisted.
”Oh--about a month, six weeks, ago. The paper is upstairs, but one forgets.”
”Wants to?”
”I didn't say so, did I? Notya is not to know.”
”And Zebedee?”
”Of course he knows.”
Rupert was frowning on her with a troubled look, and she knew he was trying to understand, that he was anxious not to hurt her.
”I'm d.a.m.ned if I understand it,” John muttered.
Her lips had a set smile. ”I'm sure,” she said lightly, ”you'll never be d.a.m.ned for that. I'm afraid I can't explain, but Zebedee knows everything.”
They found nothing else to say: John turned away, at last, and busied himself uneasily with his pipe: Rupert's cigarette became distasteful, and, throwing it after the other, he drove his hands into his pockets and watched it burn.
”I suppose we ought to have congratulated George,” he said, and looked grieved at the omission.
Helen laughed on a high note, and though she knew she was disclosing her own trouble by that laughter, she could not stay it.
”Oh, Rupert, don't!”
”My dear, I know it's funny, but I meant it. I wish I could marry you myself.”
She laughed again and waved them both away. ”Go and see Notya. She may not be asleep.”
When John came downstairs, he looked through the kitchen door and said good-night; then he advanced and kissed her. She could not remember when he had last done that, and it was, she thought, as though he kissed the dead. He patted her arm awkwardly.
”Good-night, child.”
”Don't worry,” she said, steadying her lips.
”Is there anything we can do?”