“Oh, that’s maddening,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands. “Go on.”
“But I can’t go on,” cried Toby. “That’s the devil of it. I don’t know what to confess. All that first bit’s eye-wash—quite all right as a lead. But now I’ve got to land a hell of a punch. The next two lines have got to do the trick. They’ve got to satisfy, allay and crush. They’ve got to satisfy her curiosity, allay her suspicion and crush her initiative.”
“That’s easy,” said Miss Voile. “Give me the pad.”
In a silence too big for words the writing-pad passed.
Cicely finished the sentence and threw it back.
_. . . . that it is now quite clear that we do not and never did love one another._
“That’s no good,” said Toby. “That’s simply inviting investigation. How can you reconcile that with, er, with the ‘_Toby darling_’ of yesterday afternoon?”
“Then cut me out,” said Miss Voile. “Say—
_. . . . clear that I do not and never did love her._
“That,” said Captain Rage, “would bring her over by return.”
“Because the inference is that you still love me. Remembering the violent fancy she’s taken to you, is it likely that she’d sit still and allow me to turn you down? She’d come over here like a bear robbed of her whelks—whelps.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what,” she said uncertainly. “Stick to my first suggestion and add these words.”
_You must not think this conclusion inconsistent or precipitate, because this is not, as you know, the first time that I have been engaged, while——_
“No, no. I can’t say that,” cried Toby. “It’s—it’s out of the question. She—I never told her about Leah.”
“I mean Rachel,” said Rage hurriedly. “Leah—Leah was her second name.”
Miss Voile stared at the sea with trembling lips.
“The trouble is,” she said, “you’ve written in the wrong strain—sounded the wrong note.”
“That,” said Toby, “I can entirely believe. When one’s got to convey some singularly distasteful intelligence to a woman who invariably receives good tidings, first, as a personal affront, and, secondly, as evidence of the messenger’s mental deficiency, it is extremely easy to sound the wrong note.”
Once more the writing materials changed hands. . . .
Sitting a little behind her, Toby frowned into the distance, thoughtfully pulling his moustache and stealing an occasional glance at the slim brown hand which was steadily driving the pencil across the grey-blue sheet.