CHAPTER VI

thecolourlessyears,andthelookinhereyesconfessedit. “Whatho!”saidLeonard,greetingtheapparitionwithmuchspirit,andhelpingitoffwithitsboa. Jacky,inhuskytones,replied,“Whatho!” “Beenout?”heasked.Thequestionsoundssuperfluous,butitcannothavebeenreally,fortheladyanswered,“No,”adding,“Oh,Iamsotired.” “Youtired?” “Eh?” “I’mtired,”saidhe,hangingtheboaup. “Oh,Len,Iamsotired.” “I’vebeentothatclassicalconcertItoldyouabout,”saidLeonard. “What’sthat?” “Icamebackassoonasitwasover.” “Anyonebeenroundtoourplace?”askedJacky. “NotthatI’veseen.ImetMr.Cunninghamoutside,andwepassedafewremarks.” “What,notMr.Cunningham?” “Yes.” “Oh,youmeanMr.Cunningham.” “Yes.Mr.Cunningham.” “I’vebeenouttoteaataladyfriend’s.” Hersecretbeingatlastgiven—totheworld,andthenameoftheladyfriendbeingevenadumbrated,Jackymadenofurtherexperimentsinthedifficultandtiringartofconversation.Sheneverhadbeenagreattalker.Eveninherphotographicdaysshehadrelieduponhersmileandherfiguretoattract,andnowthatshewas “Ontheshelf, Ontheshelf, Boys,boys,I’montheshelf,” shewasnotlikelytofindhertongue.Occasionalburstsofsong(ofwhichtheaboveisanexample)stillissuedfromherlips,butthespokenwordwasrare. ShesatdownonLeonard’sknee,andbegantofondlehim.Shewasnowamassivewomanofthirty-three,andherweighthurthim,buthecouldnotverywellsayanything.Thenshesaid,“Isthatabookyou’rereading?”andhesaid,“That’sabook,”anddrewitfromherunreluctantgrasp.Margaret’scardfelloutofit.Itfellfacedownwards,andhemurmured,“Bookmarker.” “Len—” “Whatisit?”heasked,alittlewearily,forsheonlyhadonetopicofconversationwhenshesatuponhisknee. “Youdoloveme?” “Jacky,youknowthatIdo.Howcanyouasksuchquestions!” “Butyoudoloveme,Len,don’tyou?” “OfcourseIdo.” Apause.Theotherremarkwasstilldue. “Len—” “Well?Whatisit?” “Len,youwillmakeitallright?” “Ican’thaveyouaskmethatagain,”saidtheboy,flaringupintoasuddenpassion.“I’vepromisedtomarryyouwhenI’mofage,andthat’senough.Myword’smyword.I’vepromisedtomarryyouassoonaseverI’mtwenty-one,andIcan’tkeeponbeingworried.I’veworriesenough.Itisn’tlikelyI’dthrowyouover,letalonemyword,whenI’vespentallthismoney.Besides,I’manEnglishman,andInevergobackonmyword.Jacky,dobereasonable.OfcourseI’llmarryyou.Onlydostopbadgeringme.” “When’syourbirthday,Len?” “I’vetoldyouagainandagain,theeleventhofNovembernext.Nowgetoffmykneeabitsomeonemustgetsupper,Isuppose.” Jackywentthroughtothebedroom,andbegantoseetoherhat.Thismeantblowingatitwithshortsharppuffs.Leonardtidiedupthesitting-room,andbegantopreparetheireveningmeal.Heputapennyintotheslotofthegas-meter,andsoontheflatwasreekingwithmetallicfumes.Somehowhecouldnotrecoverhistemper,andallthetimehewascookinghecontinuedtocomplainbitterly. “Itreallyistoobadwhenafellowisn’ttrusted.Itmakesonefeelsowild,whenI’vepretendedtothepeopleherethatyou’remywife—allright,allright,youSHALLbemywife—andI’veboughtyoutheringtowear,andI’vetakenthisflatfurnished,andit’sfarmorethanIcanafford,andyetyouaren’tcontent,andI’vealsonottoldthetruthwhenI’vewrittenhome.”Heloweredhisvoice.“He’dstopit.”Inatoneofhorror,thatwasalittleluxurious,herepeated:“Mybrother’dstopit.I’mgoingagainstthewholeworld,Jacky. “That’swhatIam,Jac