"What?" Van looked down from his great height.
Toby held up his face.
For a moment Van didn't realize what he wanted. When he did, Gwyneth saw him flush quite darkly. A little awkwardly he picked up the child and looked at him.
Toby's doubts were already gone. He beamed at Van like a benevolent elf.
"What do you want?"
For the first time since she had known him, Gwyneth detected the faintest touch of nervousness in Van's tone.
"To kiss you," Toby said unblushingly.
A very odd expression came into Van's dark eyes. And then he and Toby solemnly exchanged a kiss.
CHAPTER SIX
"Can I push that thing that does the "honk-honk" again?"
"No, not just now."
"Does that clock tick?"
"Yes, I expect so."
"Can I listen to it?"
"If you like, but you won't hear much above the sound of the car."
"Have we gone a thousand miles yet?"
"No, not quite."
They were on their way home to London at last, and Toby, sitting in the front seat between Van and Gwyneth, was putting Van through a catechism to which he was submitting remarkably well. Almost everything they passed was new to the little boy and he was wild with pleasure and curiosity.
"Is this London?" he asked almost every time they came to the outskirts of a village, and Gwyneth had to assure him that London was still a long way further on.
By the time they did reach the outer suburbs he was actually fast asleep, worn out with excitement and the pleasures of discovery.
Van glanced at him and laughed.
"Has it all been a bit too much for him?"
"Just a little, I think. Oh, Van, how nice it is to be back."
"Yes. It's pretty good, isn't it?"
When they finally reached the flat, she tried to wake Toby up. But Van said:
"Here, let me take him. He's too heavy for you." And, picking the child up, he carried him into the building.
Betty, the maid who opened the door to them, smiled at Gwyneth and asked her how she was, with great solicitude.
"Quite a heroine you were, madam," she observed with admiration. "And this is the little boy?"
"Yes, this is the little boy," Van said, and handed him over to Betty.
Toby was beginning to rub his eyes now.
"I want to go to London," he said firmly, if sleepily, and was very pleased when Betty assured him he was already there.
"Is this a flat house?'* He looked round admiringly,
"A flat/' Gwyneth amended, but without much expectation of changing his own description of it.
"I'll take him and give him his bath, madam, and then, perhaps, you would like him to have his supper in the lounge."
*Tlease, Betty/*
When Betty and the little boy had departed, she wandered round the room saying: "Oh, Van, how lovely everything is! I'd forgotten how lovely."
He looked up with a slight laugh from his writing-desk.
"It's only lovely when you're here," he told her.
"Thanks, darling. I return the compliment."
She leant on the back of his chair and smiled down at him. She felt so light-hearted, for were not Van and Toby both hers for a whole month?
He was very much aware of her, she knew, because of the faint smile which just touched her mouth, but he appeared to be almost completely absorbed in the papers on his desk.
"Oh, thafs for -you." He handed over his shoulder a sheet torn from a memorandum pad. "It's the address and phone number of Paula's Terry What's-his-name."
She took the paper and straightened up slowly.
"You'll need it." He went on writing as he talked. "I told him you'd be writing to invite him here as soon as we were back and you felt well enough."
"Of course—^you saw him, didn't you? Had lunch with him while I was down at Greystones?" She slowly curled the piece of paper in her fingers.
"I did."
"What did you think of him?" She was glad she was standing behind him.
"Oh, pleasant enough fellow. I suppose a woman would call him good-looking. He's travelled a lot—talks quite interestingly. Considering Paula picked him up abroad, she might have done much worse."
"Might she?"
"Definitely." Van had only half his attention on the matter now.
She went and sat down in a low chair, near the fire which had been lighted as the evening had turned cool.
There was a hysterical desire in her to say: "He's Toby's
father, you know," and see how that would shatter the calm atmosphere of the room and her husband's preoccupation. But she was silent—staring into the fire, pretending to warm her hands.
It was not that she had forgotten the sword hanging over her—and, still more, over Paula. Only, in the excitement and happiness of having Toby, everything else had become remote and unreal. The difficulties there had seemed to roll away magically at a touch from Van. It had seemed as though all other difficulties must surely do the same.
But now she was home again, and grim realities were gathering round. In her hands was a paper bearing Terry's name and address. She had to write to him—invite him into her home—speak with him—^perhaps match her wits against his. And in all this she would not have Van's help this time. She had to do it alone.
The door opened just then and Toby came in, dressed in pyjamas and a dressing-gown, the cord of which trailed behind him in majestic abandon.
"I've had my bath," he announced. "And there was green soap. But Betty says green soap doesn't taste any nicer than white soap. Doesn't green soap taste nice?"
"No, dear," Gwyneth secured the dressing-gown cord and tied it round him, while he smiled at her all the time.
"I like London," he said. "And I like flat houses and green soap. And I like Betty," he added graciously, as Betty came in with a bowl of bread and milk, and two chocolate biscuits on a little plate.
They put him in a low chair and let him have a small table all to himself, which delighted him hugely.
"Look at me!" he cried invitingly to Van.
"Why?" But Van looked up and smiled across at him.
"Because I have a table all to myself."
"Very exclusive."
"What's sclusive?" he asked Gwyneth, and while she tried to explain, he spooned up his bread and milk, and occasionally paused to rearrange his two chocolate biscuits on their plate.
It was a wonderful first evening.
For Gwyneth it was a wonderful first evening, too. But in the background, there was always the shadow of Terry.
During the next few days she tried to put off her decision. It was not necessary to have him here at once. She might surely let herself enjoy Toby for a very short while first—the morning walks, the meals together, the little expeditions.
But while she was doing this, in what sort of danger was Paula? Paula—^who, if she grew impatient, would certainly yield to any pleading of Terry's that she would meet him secretly.
"I'll have to see Paula and tell her the truth," Gwyneth told herself desperately. But the very next moment she thought: "No, I can't, I can'tl I hardly know her. She is anything but discreet. I can't put my whole happiness in her hands".
Then—what?
And slowly, out of her sheer despair another idea began to grow. There was just one other chance—one faint possibility of settling the whole business without having to tell Paula anything.
She could force Terry to see her.
The decision was so simple and yet so momentous that it frightened her even to think that she was anywhere near carrying it out. On the terrible day long ago, when he had left her in that third-rate hotel, she had never thought to see him again. Even now she had hardly brought herself to believe that she would have to meet him, even in company with other people, and with the protecting knowledge that he could not say anything to her outside the barest conventionalities.
That she should see hi
m alone—speak to him of intimate things—appeal to his better feelings, which she knew were almost non-existent—or, perhaps, even try to threaten him —all these seemed fantastic. But they were also beginning to seem horribly inevitable too.
How else was she to hold back the terrible march of events? How rescue Paula—and probably herself, too— from absolute disaster?
A whole night of wretched self-questioning and attempts to find other ways to escape finally hardened her resolve.
The next morning, when Van had gone to the office, she sat down to write to Terry. And, once she had started the letter, the words flowed with extraordinary ease.
You may not be altogether surprised to receive this letter (she wrote), because I don't know if anything which Paula or Van may have said has identified me for you. But—in case you don't know—I married Van Onslie some months ago and, by some irony of fate, it was me whom Pauia first told about her friendship with you. Even then, she didn't mention your name, and it was not until later that I realized the position.
You and I shall probably have to meet in the future— indeed, I think Van has already invited you home. But before that happens I must speak with you alone. Will you please telephone to me some time tomorrow, between eleven and five, so that we can arrange it?—
Gwyneth. She addressed the letter, and, with a sort of sick determination, dropped it into the nearest pillar-box.
Several times during the evening she wondered if Van noticed anything strange in her maimer. Toby had said twice that afternoon:
"Have you got a headache? Do you feel quiet?" And each time she had assured him that she was all right, and had told herself that she must manage better than this. But Van only said:
"You're rather tired, child, aren't you? Have you been overdoing it to-day?"
"No, Van. But I am a litttr tired. I think I'll go to bed early."
So she had to go to bed early—^which brought the dreaded tomorrow all the more quickly.
She hated every minute of the next morning. Each time the telephone bell rang, her heart seemed to flutter in her throat. And each time it was something quite unimportant, something which surely, surely need not have been used to drag at her nerves on this morning of all mornings.
And then, when the terrible moment did at last arrive, it was Toby who, on a sudden naughtly impulse, seized up the telephone and cried "Hello", as he had seen her do.
She took the receiver from him at once, and told him to' run along to Betty. And, even as she spoke, she heard Terry's well-known voice say:
"Mrs. Onslie? Gwyneth, is that you?"
"Yes " She got it out somehow. "Yes. Is that Terry?"
"Of course. It was charming to hear from you.**
She wondered then how that faintly insolent voice could ever have held such charm for her. But of course, the tone had been very different then—just as the tone which he used to Paula now would be different.
"Terry, where can I meet you?" She couldn't bring herself to say any tactful things to lead up to the question. She must get it over as quickly as possible.
"Are you quite sure you want to see me?"
"No, but I must. It's necessary."
He laughed slightly then.
"We-ell "
"Where can I see you?" She spoke impatiently because she hated having to repeat the question, as though it were of such importance to see him. Her pride had never been very much in evidence when she had had dealings with him before. Now the position was very different, and her pride suffered badly.
"You'd better come along here, to my rooms," he said carelessly.
"To your—rooms? I don't think that's necessary."
"But very enjoyable, don't you think? And safer than meeting in a public place."
"I'll take that risk," she said curtly. "I don't want to come to your rooms."
"My dear Gwyneth, you surely aren't troubling about the conventions at this hour, are you? I should have thought we had shared a room too often for that to matter."
She hated him so much when he said that that for a moment she could not even reply. When she did, it was simply to repeat:
"I prefer not to come to your rooms."
"And I prefer that you should, my dear," he said dryly. "It happens to suit me better. If you want to see me— you'll find me here any time during this afternoon. If you don't come, I shall know that you decided it was better for us not to meet."
She began to say something else—-to protest again, but the line went dead, and she was left sitting there with the telephone receiver in her hand, while the certaincy was
growing on her that it was almost useless to go and see him in any case.
Yet she had to go. What else could she do? It was the only possible charxe.
At lunch-time Toby said to her:
"Am I coming out with you this afternoon?*'
"Not this afternoon, darling. I have to go out alone. Betty will take you out."
"Oh." He looked rather dashed. He was great friends with Betty, but nothing was quite so much fun as going out with Gwyneth. "Will you be in to tea?"
"Yes," she promised, "I'll be in to tea." And, rather like a child herself, she thought: "Oh, I wish it were tea-time and this afternoon were over!"
Just before he went out for his afternoon walk, Betty brought him to her room to kiss her good-bye. Gwyneth was almost ready to go out herself, in a slim black suit with a great smoke fox collar.
"Good-bye, darling," she bent down to kiss the little, hatless, blue-clad figure. "Have a good walk."
"Good-bye. Have a good walk, too," Toby said politely. "You will be in to tea, won't you?"
"Oh yes."
"And can we have the chocolate biscuits with the cream in the middle?"
"I'U see we do."
"Thank you." He gave a little skip of pleasure, and ran back to Betty, who was smiling as she stood by the door, waiting for him.
"You're a very lucky boy,*' she remarked as they went off, and Toby said: "Yes, I'm a very lucky boy," very contentedly.
As she turned back to the glass to pull on her beautiful little black hat, Gwyneth thought:
"And I suppose she thinks I'm a very lucky woman, too." It would be impossible for Betty to suppose that her calm, beautiful, well-dressed employer had any serious cares in the world. Lots of money, a lovely home, a devoted, if stem, husband, and a dear little boy. What more could anyone want?
"Security," thought Gwyneth, as she went out of the flat. "Security—or what is any of it worth?"
She took a taxi to within walking distance of where Terry lived, in St. John's Wood. She would not take her own car and leave it outside, and she had a nervous disinclination to give Terry's address to any taxi-driver who might belong to the taxi-rank near her own home.
It was all very stupid and sordid, and she told herself grimly that she felt less respectable as—having seen the taxi drive away again—she turned down the road where Terry lived.
The 'rooms' of which he had spoken turned out to be the ground floor of a large and pleasant house, which had been converted into a garden flat. The manservant who admitted her either expected her or was quite used to his master having feminine visitors. Without any word of comment, he showed her into a well-furnished room, with large windows looking out on to a high-walled garden.
She sat down by one of the windows. She felt nervous, unhappily angry that she should have to be in this position, and she dreaded the coming interview. Never before had she had quite this feeling of angry shame. It was as though she were no more than a cast-off mistress, coming back to ask favours of a lover who had treated her badly.
When she heard his step outside, she stood up instinctively. And she hoped that she faced him with dignity rather than defiance as he came into the room.
"My dear Gwyneth, this is really delightful!'*
Any other man would have been at least faintly abashed at the situation, but Terry came forward coolly and held out his hand without a trace of embarrassment.
She just touched his fingers with hers, and she didn't smile as she looked at him.
He hadn't changed. He hadn't changed one atom in all this time. How very lightly the years dealt with such easygoing scoundrels as Terry! She supposed he lived on the hearts and nerves and energy of other people—^just as he lived on their money—and that was why time took no toU of him.
"Do sit down. I understand you wanted a really—intimate talk. And, if I may say so, Gwyneth, how very much lovelier you have grown."
"I came to speak about Paula," she said coldly and curtly. (Was it possible that she had once listened breath-
lessly to the slightest compliment this man chose to pay her?)
"Oh—Paula. Yes? And what about the charming Paula?'*
A smile touched Terry's rather full lips, but it came nowhere near his eyes, she noticed. Those remained hard, bright and alert.
"Terry, I don't know that it's any good your hedging.
You must know, as well as I do, that I can't possibly allow
a young relation of mine to keep up a friendship with you
—especially the kind of semi-secret friendship which you
fc: appear to have started.'*
She paused, but he said nothing, merely looked at her with those hard eyes and continued to smile.
"WeU?" she said sharply.
"What, my dear?"
"What have you to say?'*
"Nothing at all. I am waiting to hear how you intend to make the headstrong and romantic Paula break off thi^ —semi-secret friendship.'*
"I have only to tell her a fraction of the truth and you know she would never look at you again.'*
"On the contrary, if you told her a fraction of the truth, she would never look at you again, because she would simply not believe you. No, no, my dear, you would have to tell Paula the whole truth. How does that strike you, eh?"
"If necessary, I would do it.'*
"And yet I feel, somehow, that Paula is not the girl to keep things entirely to herself. Now if your husband were to know—"
"My husband knows the whole story already," lied Gwyneth unflinchingly. "All he does not know is that you were the man."
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