Bill was puzzled. He was one of those simple men who take their fellows on trust, but who, if once that trust is shattered, can never recover it. Like most simple men, he was tenacious of ideas when he got them, and the belief that Claire was playing fast and loose was not lightly to be removed from his mind. He had found her out during his self-communion that night, and he could never believe her again. He had the feeling that there was something behind what she was saying. He could not put his finger on the clue, but that there was a clue he was certain.
‘I only got engaged to him out of pique. I was angry with you, and–Well, that’s how it happened.’
Still Bill could not believe. It was plausible. It sounded true. And yet some instinct told him that it was not true. And while he waited, perplexed, Claire made a false step.
The thing had been so close to the top of her mind ever since she had come to the knowledge of it that it had been hard for her to keep it down. Now she could keep it down no longer.
‘How wonderful about old Mr Nutcombe, Bill!’ she said.
A vast relief rolled over Bill. Despite his instinct, he had been wavering. But now he understood. He had found the clue.
‘You got my letter, then?’
‘Yes; it was forwarded on from the theatre. I got it to-night.’
Too late she realized what she had said and the construction that an intelligent man would put on it. Then she reflected that Bill was not an intelligent man. She shot a swift glance at him. To all appearances he had suspected nothing.
‘It went all over the place,’ she hurried on. ‘The people at the Portsmouth theatre sent it to the London office, who sent it home, and mother mailed it on to me.’
‘I see.’
There was a silence. Claire drew a step nearer.
‘Bill!’ she said softly.
Bill shut his eyes. The moment had come which he had dreaded. Not even the thought that she was crooked, that she had been playing with him, could make it any better. She was a woman and he was a man. That was all that mattered, and nothing could alter it.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s impossible.’
Claire stared at him in amazement. She had not been prepared for this. He met her eyes, but every nerve in his body was protesting.
‘Bill!’
‘I’m sorry.
‘But, Bill!’
He set his teeth. It was just as bad as he had thought it would be.
‘But, Bill, I’ve explained. I’ve told you how–‘
‘I know.’
Claire’s eyes opened wide.
‘I thought you loved me.’ She came closer. She pulled at his sleeve. Her voice took on a note of soft raillery. ‘Don’t be absurd, Bill! You mustn’t behave like a sulky schoolboy. It isn’t like you, this. You surely don’t want me to humble myself more than I have done.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Why, Bill, I’m proposing to you! I know I’ve treated you badly, but I’ve explained why. You must be just enough to see that it wasn’t altogether my fault. I’m only human. And if I made a mistake I’ve done all I can do to undo it. I–‘
‘Claire, listen: I’m engaged!’
She fell back. For the first time the sense of defeat came to her. She had anticipated many things. She had looked for difficulties. But she had not expected this. A feeling of cold fury surged over her at the way fate had tricked her. She had gambled recklessly on her power of fascination, and she had lost.
Mr Pickering, at that moment brooding in solitude in the smoking-room of Lady Wetherby’s house, would have been relieved could he have known how wistfully she was thinking of him.
‘You’re engaged?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well!’ She forced another laugh. ‘How very–rapid of you! To whom?’
‘To Elizabeth Boyd.’
‘I’m afraid I’m very ignorant, but who is Elizabeth Boyd? The ornate lady you were dancing with at the restaurant?’
‘No!’
‘Who then?’
‘She is old Ira Nutcombe’s niece. The money ought to have been left to her. That was why I came over to America, to see if I could do anything for her.’