Part 8 (1/2)
”Mayn't I talk about the thing I'm thinking about? How can I help it?”
Her smile, indulgent to him, pleaded for herself also.
”It is horribly hard not to, isn't it? That's why I've told all about it, I suppose.”
Stephen Aikenhead, after the shake of his head, had drifted into the house, seeking a fresh fill for his pipe. He found the evening post in and, having nothing in the world else to do, brought out a letter to Mrs. Maxon.
”For you,” he said, making a sudden and somewhat disconcerting appearance at her elbow. He puffed steadily, holding the letter out to Winnie, while he looked at his friend G.o.dfrey with a kindly if quizzical regard.
”Good gracious, Stephen!”
”Well, I always like letters worth a 'Good gracious,' Winnie.”
”Hobart Gaynor's coming here to-morrow.”
”Don't know the gentleman. Friend of yours? Very glad to see him.”
”Coming from--from Cyril!”
”Oh!” The little word was significantly drawn out. ”That's another pair of shoes!” it seemed to say.
She sat up straight, and let her feet down to the ground.
”To make me go back, I suppose!”
”You could hardly expect him not to have a shot at it--Cyril, I mean.”
Her eyes had been turned up to Stephen. In lowering them to her letter again, she caught in transit G.o.dfrey Ledstone's regard. For a second or two the encounter lasted. She swished her skirt round--over an ankle heedlessly exposed by her quick movement. Her glance fell to the letter.
G.o.dfrey's remained on her face--as well she knew.
”I must see Hobart, but I won't go back. I won't, Stephen.”
”All right, my dear. Stay here--the longer, the better for us. Shall I wire Gaynor to come?”
”Will you?”
Stephen's last glance--considerably blurred by tobacco smoke--was rather recognisant of fact than charged with judgment. ”I suppose all that will count,” he reflected, as he went back once again to the house. It certainly counted. G.o.dfrey Ledstone was doing nothing against the code.
All the same he was introducing a complication into Winnie Maxon's problem. At the start freedom for her had a negative content--it was freedom from things--friction, wrangles, crus.h.i.+ng. Was that all that freedom meant? Was not that making it an empty sterile thing?
”You'll be firm, Mrs. Maxon?”
G.o.dfrey leant forward in his chair; the change of att.i.tude brought him startlingly near to her. She sprang quickly to her feet, in instinctive retreat.
”I must hear what Hobart has to say.” She met his eyes once more, and smiled pleadingly. He shrugged his shoulders, looking sulky. Her lips curved in a broader smile. ”That's only fair to Cyril. You're not coming to dinner? Then--good night.”
CHAPTER VI
FRUIT OF THE TREE