Part 31 (2/2)
”Then I guess I'll walk to Monte Carlo and lunch there. How about dinner?”
”If they see us together--”
”Ask them to come along too. You can tell them I'm an old friend. I am that, am I not?”
”One of the oldest and best,” she answered earnestly.
”Then I'll call you up when I come back. Good luck.”
With a nod and a smile, he left her.
From the window she watched him out of sight. He did not turn. There was no reason in the world why she should have expected him to turn.
He had a pleasant day before him. He would amuse himself at the Casino, enjoy a good luncheon, smoke a cigarette in the suns.h.i.+ne, and call her up at his leisure when he returned. Except for the light obligation of ascertaining her wishes concerning dinner, it was the routine he had followed for ten years. It had kept him satisfied, kept him content. Doubtless, if he were left undisturbed, it would keep him satisfied and content for another decade. He would always be able to walk away from her without turning back.
CHAPTER XVIII
PETER
Beatrice brought Peter at ten, and, in spite of the mute appeal of Marjory's eyes, stole off on tiptoe and left her alone with him.
”Has Trix gone?” demanded Peter.
”Yes.”
”She shouldn't have done that,” he complained.
Marjory made him comfortable in the chair Monte had lately occupied, finding a cus.h.i.+on for his head.
”Please don't do those things,” he objected. ”You make me feel as if I were wearing a sign begging for pity.”
”How can any one help pitying you, when they see you like this, Peter?”
she asked gently.
”What right have they to do it?” he demanded.
”Right?”
She frowned at that word. So many things in her life seemed to have been decided without respect for right.
”I'm the only one to say whether I shall be pitied or not,” he declared. ”I've lost the use of my eyes temporarily by my own fault.
I don't like it; but I refuse to be pitied.”
Marjory was surprised to find him so aggressive. It was not what she expected after listening to Beatrice. It changed her whole att.i.tude toward him instantly from one of guarded condolence to honest admiration. There was no whine here. He was blaming no one--neither himself nor her. It was with a wave of deep and sincere sympathy, springing spontaneously from within herself, that she spoke.
”Peter,” she said, ”I won't pity you any more. But if I 'm sorry for you--awfully sorry--you won't mind that?”
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