“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” said Freddie doubtfully. “You see, coming down to it, the thing was more or less his fault, what?”
“More or less!”
“I mean to say —”
“More or less!”
Freddie glanced at her anxiously. He was not at all sure now that he liked the way she was looking or the tone in which she spoke. He was not a keenly observant young man, but there did begin at this point to seep through to his brain-centers a suspicion that all was not well.
“Let me pull myself together!” said Freddie warily to his immortal soul. “I believe I’m getting the raspberry!” And there was silence for a space.
The complexity of life began to weigh upon Freddie. Life was like one of those shots at squash which seem so simple till you go to knock the cover off the ball, when the ball sort of edges away from you and you miss it. Life, Freddie began to perceive, was apt to have a nasty back-spin on it. He had never had any doubt when he had started, that the only difficult part of his expedition to America would be the finding of Jill. Once found, he had presumed that she would be delighted to hear his good news and would joyfully accompany him home on the next boat. It appeared now, however, that he had been too sanguine. Optimist as he was, he had to admit that, as far as could be ascertained with the naked eye, the jolly old binge might be said to have sprung a leak.
He proceeded to approach the matter from another angle.
“I say!”
“Yes?”
“You do love old Derek, don’t you? I mean to say, you know what I mean, love him and all that sort of rot?”
“I don’t know!”
“You don’t know! Oh, I say, come now! You must know! Pull up your socks, old thing — I mean, pull yourself together! You either love a chappie or you don’t.”
Jill smiled painfully.
“How nice it would be if everything were as simple and straightforward as that. Haven’t you ever heard that the dividing line between love and hate is just a thread? Poets have said so a great number of times.”
“Oh, poets!” said Freddie, dismissing the genus with a wave of the hand. He had been compelled to read Shakespeare and all that sort of thing at school, but it had left him cold, and since growing to man’s estate he had rather handed the race of bards the mitten. He liked Doss Chiderdoss’ stuff in the Sporting Times, but beyond that he was not much of a lad for poets.
“Can’t you understand a girl in my position not being able to make up her mind whether she loves a man or despises him?”
Freddie shook his head.
“No,” he said. “It sounds dashed silly to me!”
“Then what’s the good of talking?” cried Jill. “It only hurts.”
“But—won’t you come back to England?”
“No.”
“Oh, I say! Be a sport! Take a stab at it!”
Jill laughed again—another of those grating laughs which afflicted Freddie with a sense of foreboding and failure. Something had undoubtedly gone wrong with the works. He began to fear that at some point in the conversation—just where he could not say—he had been less diplomatic than he might have been.
“You speak as if you were inviting me to a garden-party! No, I won’t take a stab at it. You’ve a lot to learn about women, Freddie!”
“Women are rum!” conceded that perplexed ambassador.
Jill began to move away.
“Don’t go!” urged Freddie.
“Why not? What’s the use of talking any more? Have you ever broken an arm or a leg, Freddie?”
“Yes,” said Freddie, mystified. “As a matter of fact, my last year at Oxford, playing soccer for the college in a friendly game, some blighter barged into me and I came down on my wrist. But —”
“It hurt?”
“Like the deuce!”
“And then it began to get better, I suppose. Well, used you to hit it and twist it and prod it, or did you leave it alone to try and heal? I won’t talk any more about Derek! I simply won’t! I’m all smashed up inside, and I don’t know if I’m ever going to get well again, but at least I’m going to give myself a chance. I’m working as hard as ever I can, and I’m forcing myself not to think of him. I’m in a sling, Freddie, like your wrist, and I don’t want to be prodded. I hope we shall see a lot of each other while you’re over here—you always were the greatest dear in the world—but you mustn’t mention Derek again, and you mustn’t ask me to go home. If you avoid those subjects, we’ll be as happy as possible. And now I’m going to leave you to talk to poor Nelly. She has been hovering round for the last ten minutes, waiting for a chance to speak to you. She worships you, you know!”
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