“It’s a wicked lie,” shrieked Virginia. “How dare you say such a thing? You’re not like sheep. You’re wolves. And we don’t go after you. You come and pester us till we’re nearly out of our minds, and when for the sake of peace we try to be nice, you take what you want and then you turn us down.”
Roger took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
From the opposite corner of the limousine Virginia continued to dispense indignation in the shape of spasmodic inspirations which shook the seat.
The man who can withstand that particular form of emotion has yet to be sired.
After the tenth appeal, which was more of an _ultimatum_ and fairly rattled round the car, Roger returned to the assault.
“Jenny, my dear, have a heart. For God’s sake don’t cry like this. I swear I never meant any harm. You know I didn’t. And—and we’ll get back on them somehow. I’ve got an idea already—it only wants working out.”
“I don’t want to get back,” said Virginia, dabbing her eyes. “I’m not revengeful. To-morrow I shall go into retreat. I know a place in the Midlands. You live very simply and do your own cell, and you don’t see any papers or anything. And there aren’t any men for miles, except one priest.”
“Poor devil,” said Roger thoughtfully. “Does he muck out his own cell too?”
“Oh, of course you can laugh,” said Virginia hotly. “But I mean what I say. I’m utterly disillusioned, and I’m going to clear out and leave the lot of you to it. What’s your rotten idea?”
Roger took out a case and selected a cigarette.
“I’m afraid it’s too worldly,” he said. “Besides, as you don’t see the papers——”
“Now, where’s that note you sent me?” said Virginia, ransacking her bag. “The priest’ll want that to send to Derry.”
“Oh, the vixen!” he said. “Never mind. In return for that note I’ll hand you my rotten idea.”
With an envelope, pinched between her forefinger and thumb, Virginia tapped her small nose and stared at the chauffeur’s shoulders and the black and silver habit of Night beyond.
“I give you it back,” she said, “unconditionally.” The letter passed. “You should never have written it, Roger; but that was my fault. I’ve been a fool, and I’ve made a fool of you. And between us I quite believe we’ve driven Derry and Rosemary into each other’s arms. . . . Well, it’s no less than we deserve. Derry’s a wonderful husband, and Rosemary’s a peach of a wife.”