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Page 109
It seemed to Aline that on this particular afternoon a strange
dumbness had descended on her. She had been unable to speak to
George and now she could not think of anything to say to Freddie.
She looked at him and he looked at her; and the clock on the
mantel-piece went on ticking.
"It was that bally cat of Aunt Ann's," said Freddie at length,
essaying light conversation. "It came legging it up the stairs
and I took the most frightful toss. I hate cats! Do you hate
cats? I knew a fellow in London who couldn't stand cats."
Aline began to wonder whether there was not something permanently
wrong with her organs of speech. It should have been a simple
matter to develop the cat theme, but she found herself unable to
do so. Her mind was concentrated, to the exclusion of all else,
on the repellent nature of the spectacle provided by her loved
one in pyjamas. Freddie resumed the conversation.
"I was just reading a corking book. Have you ever read these
things? They come out every month, and they're corking. The
fellow who writes them must be a corker. It beats me how he
thinks of these things. They are about a detective--a chap called
Gridley Quayle. Frightfully exciting!"
An obvious remedy for dumbness struck Aline.
"Shall I read to you, Freddie?"
"Right-ho! Good scheme! I've got to the top of this page."
Aline took the paper-covered book.
"'Seven guns covered him with deadly precision.' Did you get as
far as that?"
"Yes; just beyond. It's a bit thick, don't you know! This chappie
Quayle has been trapped in a lonely house, thinking he was going
to see a pal in distress; and instead of the pal there pop out a
whole squad of masked blighters with guns. I don't see how he's
going to get out of it, myself; but I'll bet he does. He's a
corker!"
If anybody could have pitied Aline more than she pitied herself,
as she waded through the adventures of Mr. Quayle, it would have
been Ashe Marson. He had writhed as he wrote the words and she
writhed as she read them. The Honorable Freddie also writhed, but
with tense excitement.
"What's the matter? Don't stop!" he cried as Aline's voice
ceased.
"I'm getting hoarse, Freddie."
Freddie hesitated. The desire to remain on the trail with Gridley
struggled with rudimentary politeness.
"How would it be--Would you mind if I just took a look at the
rest of it myself? We could talk afterward, you know. I shan't be
long."
"Of course! Do read if you want to. But do you really like this
sort of thing, Freddie?"
"Me? Rather! Why--don't you?"
"I don't know. It seems a little--I don't know."
Freddie had become absorbed in his story. Aline did not attempt
further analysis of her attitude toward Mr. Quayle; she relapsed
into silence.
It was a silence pregnant with thought. For the first time in
their relations, she was trying to visualize to herself exactly
what marriage with this young man would mean. Hitherto, it struck
her, she had really seen so little of Freddie that she had
scarcely had a chance of examining him. In the crowded world
outside he had always seemed a tolerable enough person. To-day,
somehow, he was different. Everything was different to-day.
This, she took it, was a fair sample of what she might expect
after marriage. Marriage meant--to come to essentials--that two
people were very often and for lengthy periods alone together,
dependent on each other for mutual entertainment. What exactly
would it be like, being alone often and for lengthy periods with
Freddie? Well, it would, she assumed, be like this.
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