CHAPTER XXVII

It was after seven, on the evening of that same Sunday, that Enid Crofton, after having spent the whole day in her bedroom, came down to her pretty, cheerful, little sitting-room.

She had returned from London in an anxious, nervous, strung-up frame of mind.  For the first time in her life she did not know what it was she really wanted, or rather she was uncertain as to what it would be best for her to do.

The thought of seeing Jack Tosswill, of having to fence and flirt with him in her present disturbed state of mind, had been intolerable.  That was the real reason why she had stayed upstairs all to-day.  He had called three times, and the third time he had brought with him a letter even more passionately loving, while also even more angry and hurt in tone, than the one which she had received from him the day before.

As she read this second epistle she had told herself, with something like rage, that it was not her fault that what she had intended should be a harmless flirtation had caused such havoc.  Still, deep in her heart she was well aware that but for the havoc she had caused, she could never have confided to him her urgent need of the five hundred pounds which he had procured with such surprising ease.

Jack had been quite honest with the woman he loved.  He had told her of his talk with Radmore, of Radmore’s immediate, generous response, and the cheque he had given which he, Jack, handed to her as a free gift.

She had gone up to London fully intending to see the Pipers after she had cashed the cheque.  But when it came to the point she had shirked the second half of her programme, telling herself, with perhaps a certain amount of truth, that by waiting till the last day of grace allowed her by that terrible old-clothes woman she would get better terms.  Perhaps then they would be satisfied with three hundred pounds, or even less, and acting on that hope, she had expended a portion of the money in purchasing a few of the pretty dress etceteras which are so costly nowadays.

Apart from the time occupied by those pleasant purchases, she had spent every waking minute of the day with Harold Tremaine, lunching and dining at the big smart restaurants which both her soul and her body loved, going to the play, and listening in between to the most delightful love-making....

Small wonder that during that long, dull Sunday, spent perforce in her bedroom, Enid Crofton’s mind often took refuge in the thought of the only man now in her life with whom all her memories and all her relations had been, and were, absolutely satisfactory.  Captain Tremaine was a simple, happy, cheerful soul.  Though he was always what he called “dashed short,” when with a woman he flung about his money right royally.  Also he was an expert, not a teasing, lover.  He knew, so Enid reminded herself gratefully, when to stop, as well as when to begin, making love.