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Authors: Rebecca West
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and remembered something that had slipped her mind.
Lifting her eyes to Laurence’s, she said gaily, “You understand why I was specially anxious to get rid of André de Verviers at this particular moment, don’t you?”
As she had feared, he flushed and looked embarrassed. He might as well have said aloud, “Why, of course I understand. You hoped to marry me. But how can you be so indecent as to talk about it?”
This, she found, she could not endure. To have him thinking of her like that was more disagreeable than any price she would have to pay for putting an end to it.
“How odd it is,” she said, taking care not to laugh too extravagantly, “that my excitement over the hateful thing I had to do this morning should have put out of my head what is far more important! Have you noticed nothing about me lately?”
He shook his head, a little stiffly.
“I’ve sometimes wondered if I haven’t seemed a little too frank and free with you, if you might not have thought I had ‘gone gay’, considering our friendship was so far from intimate. I would have kept my distance and my party manners properly if there had been only André. But when one is in love, you know, one becomes extraordinarily indiscreet, one treats all other men in a way that must be rather puzzling to them if they haven’t got the key.”
His eyes had become glassy, he was leaning forward to listen to her.
“Yes, I’m in love!” she told him gaily. “And if I’ve been successful in ridding myself of André, I shall marry quite soon. And if I’ve been boring you with an explanation of all the whys and wherefores of this morning’s scene with the roses, it’s because I’ve wanted to appear to you with a clean sheet, since I’m a little shy about telling one of Roy’s friends about my new choice.” The waiter had laid down a plate of change at Laurence’s elbow, and Laurence swept it back to him with a gesture full of hate.
“You see, Roy was perfect.” He was, he was, her heart said. He would have sent any stranger to hell rather than think disloyally of me. “And my second husband hasn’t, poor dear, anything of Roy’s outward perfection.”
“Who is it?” asked Laurence. “But who is it?”
“Why, Marc Sallafranque.”
“Marc Sallafranque,” repeated Laurence. He sat for a second in silence, then exclaimed, “But I thought you didn’t like Sallafranque?”
“Ah, you’ve evidently seen some gestures that were meant for André,” she laughed. “But do say you’ll approve, and not cast me off. I know he looks the funniest thing in the world, but inside he has a lot of the goodness and sweetness of Roy.” She paused, because she had suddenly felt a click in her brain, as if these words which she had spoken for a false purpose had coincided with the truth. “Take that on my word,” she said, “and say you’ll be my friend.” She stood up, but he did not say the word, or do anything but regard her with the queer mask, as of a stricken hyena, that people wear who are making haste laughing at themselves before other people can start laughing at them. Her plan had evidently succeeded perfectly. Its only defect was that it left her in possession of Sallafranque, which was a responsibility that she might as well assume fully at once.
“Marc will be waiting in the hall now, I expect,” she said. “I told him to come here at half past two so that you could congratulate us. I’ll go and fetch him.”
“What, is he here?” said Laurence in tones which betrayed that he had been nourishing even to the end a hope that her story was not really true. “Oh, yes, I’d love to see him.”
Isabelle went from the terrace into the hall, leaving him sitting in his chair with far less than his usual elegance, and was in time to see Marc Sallafranque jumping out of his cream-coloured car, which was indeed a Sallafranque, but had a special body put to it, lustrous and inclining to the baroque. He began to hurry towards
Lifting her eyes to Laurence’s, she said gaily, “You understand why I was specially anxious to get rid of André de Verviers at this particular moment, don’t you?”
As she had feared, he flushed and looked embarrassed. He might as well have said aloud, “Why, of course I understand. You hoped to marry me. But how can you be so indecent as to talk about it?”
This, she found, she could not endure. To have him thinking of her like that was more disagreeable than any price she would have to pay for putting an end to it.
“How odd it is,” she said, taking care not to laugh too extravagantly, “that my excitement over the hateful thing I had to do this morning should have put out of my head what is far more important! Have you noticed nothing about me lately?”
He shook his head, a little stiffly.
“I’ve sometimes wondered if I haven’t seemed a little too frank and free with you, if you might not have thought I had ‘gone gay’, considering our friendship was so far from intimate. I would have kept my distance and my party manners properly if there had been only André. But when one is in love, you know, one becomes extraordinarily indiscreet, one treats all other men in a way that must be rather puzzling to them if they haven’t got the key.”
His eyes had become glassy, he was leaning forward to listen to her.
“Yes, I’m in love!” she told him gaily. “And if I’ve been successful in ridding myself of André, I shall marry quite soon. And if I’ve been boring you with an explanation of all the whys and wherefores of this morning’s scene with the roses, it’s because I’ve wanted to appear to you with a clean sheet, since I’m a little shy about telling one of Roy’s friends about my new choice.” The waiter had laid down a plate of change at Laurence’s elbow, and Laurence swept it back to him with a gesture full of hate.
“You see, Roy was perfect.” He was, he was, her heart said. He would have sent any stranger to hell rather than think disloyally of me. “And my second husband hasn’t, poor dear, anything of Roy’s outward perfection.”
“Who is it?” asked Laurence. “But who is it?”
“Why, Marc Sallafranque.”
“Marc Sallafranque,” repeated Laurence. He sat for a second in silence, then exclaimed, “But I thought you didn’t like Sallafranque?”
“Ah, you’ve evidently seen some gestures that were meant for André,” she laughed. “But do say you’ll approve, and not cast me off. I know he looks the funniest thing in the world, but inside he has a lot of the goodness and sweetness of Roy.” She paused, because she had suddenly felt a click in her brain, as if these words which she had spoken for a false purpose had coincided with the truth. “Take that on my word,” she said, “and say you’ll be my friend.” She stood up, but he did not say the word, or do anything but regard her with the queer mask, as of a stricken hyena, that people wear who are making haste laughing at themselves before other people can start laughing at them. Her plan had evidently succeeded perfectly. Its only defect was that it left her in possession of Sallafranque, which was a responsibility that she might as well assume fully at once.
“Marc will be waiting in the hall now, I expect,” she said. “I told him to come here at half past two so that you could congratulate us. I’ll go and fetch him.”
“What, is he here?” said Laurence in tones which betrayed that he had been nourishing even to the end a hope that her story was not really true. “Oh, yes, I’d love to see him.”
Isabelle went from the terrace into the hall, leaving him sitting in his chair with far less than his usual elegance, and was in time to see Marc Sallafranque jumping out of his cream-coloured car, which was indeed a Sallafranque, but had a special body put to it, lustrous and inclining to the baroque. He began to hurry towards
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