Part 41 (1/2)

But Fillmore had rung off. Sally hung up the receiver thoughtfully. She was puzzled and anxious. However, there being nothing to be gained by worrying, she carried the breakfast things into the kitchen and tried to divert herself by was.h.i.+ng up. Presently a ring at the door-bell brought her out, to find her sister-in-law.

Marriage, even though it had brought with it the lofty position of partners.h.i.+p with the Hope of the American Stage, had effected no noticeable alteration in the former Miss Winch. As Mrs. Fillmore she was the same square, friendly creature. She hugged Sally in a muscular manner and went on in the sitting-room.

”Well, it's great seeing you again,” she said. ”I began to think you were never coming back. What was the big idea, springing over to England like that?”

Sally had been expecting the question, and answered it with composure.

”I wanted to help Mr. Faucitt.”

”Who's Mr. Faucitt?”

”Hasn't Fillmore ever mentioned him? He was a dear old man at the boarding-house, and his brother died and left him a dressmaking establishment in London. He screamed to me to come and tell him what to do about it. He has sold it now and is quite happy in the country.”

”Well, the trip's done you good,” said Mrs. Fillmore. ”You're prettier than ever.”

There was a pause. Already, in these trivial opening exchanges, Sally had sensed a suggestion of unwonted gravity in her companion. She missed that careless whimsicality which had been the chief characteristic of Miss Gladys Winch and seemed to have been cast off by Mrs. Fillmore Nicholas. At their meeting, before she had spoken, Sally had not noticed this, but now it was apparent that something was weighing on her companion. Mrs. Fillmore's honest eyes were troubled.

”What's the bad news?” asked Sally abruptly. She wanted to end the suspense. ”Fillmore was telling me over the 'phone that you had some bad news for me.”

Mrs. Fillmore scratched at the carpet for a moment with the end of her parasol without replying. When she spoke it was not in answer to the question.

”Sally, who's this man Carmyle over in England?”

”Oh, did Fillmore tell you about him?”

”He told me there was a rich fellow over in England who was crazy about you and had asked you to marry him, and that you had turned him down.”

Sally's momentary annoyance faded. She could hardly, she felt, have expected Fillmore to refrain from mentioning the matter to his wife.

”Yes,” she said. ”That's true.”

”You couldn't write and say you've changed your mind?”

Sally's annoyance returned. All her life she had been intensely independent, resentful of interference with her private concerns.

”I suppose I could if I had--but I haven't. Did Fillmore tell you to try to talk me round?”

”Oh, I'm not trying to talk you round,” said Mrs. Fillmore quickly.

”Goodness knows, I'm the last person to try and jolly anyone into marrying anybody if they didn't feel like it. I've seen too many marriages go wrong to do that. Look at Elsa Doland.”

Sally's heart jumped as if an exposed nerve had been touched.

”Elsa?” she stammered, and hated herself because her voice shook.

”Has--has her marriage gone wrong?”

”Gone all to bits,” said Mrs. Fillmore shortly. ”You remember she married Gerald Foster, the man who wrote 'The Primrose Way'?”

Sally with an effort repressed an hysterical laugh.

”Yes, I remember,” she said.