One evening, after the child had gone to bed, they were
sitting on the verandah. Louis had been talking of going home to start
afresh in England.
"The voyage would do you good, Marcella. My diagnostic eye has been on
you lately," he said as he lighted a cigarette and passed it to her.
"You're looking fagged, and it's unnatural to see you looking fagged.
You're getting thin. I don't want to see you suddenly evaporate, old
girl."
She shook her head and stared unseeingly over the soft green of
springing life that, before they came, had been devastating gorse.
"Yes, clearly a trip to England is indicated," he said. "You're alone
too much. Marcella, I believe you're thinking every minute about
Kraill."
"I--can't help it," she said in a low voice. "They're--good thoughts,
now."
He looked at her, and something about the droop of her shoulders
contracted his throat, made a pain at his heart.
"It's hard--" he began.
"It's a hunger, Louis. You understand it, don't you? But I can't buy it
in a bottle!"
"Marcella!" he cried passionately. "I'll--I'll come into your thoughts
in time. Lord knows I'm trying hard enough."
"Oh my dear, don't I know?" she said gently. "And has it occurred to you
what a mercy it is for me that you're like this now? If I had to hide
everything up, like I used to, I couldn't bear it--never seeing him
again--if you didn't help me to.
Pages:
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521