The Moon out of Reach Part 17

"My dear," he said, "do you still care?"

"No, I don't think so," she answered uncertainly. "I--I'm not sure. Oh, Peter, how difficult life is!"

He a.s.sented briefly. He knew very well how difficult.

"I can't imagine why I thought of Maryon just now," went on Nan, a puzzled frown wrinkling her brows. "I never do, as a rule, when I'm with you."

She smiled rather wistfully and with a restless movement he sprang to his feet and began pacing the room. A little cry of dismay broke from her and she came quickly to his side, lifting a questioning face to his.

"Why, Peter--Peter--What have I said? You're not angry, are you?"

"_Angry_!" His voice roughened a bit. "If I could only tell you the truth!"

"Tell it me," she said simply.

For a moment he was silent. Then:

"Don't ask me, Nan. There are some things that can't be told."

As he spoke, his eyes, dark and pa.s.sionate with some forcibly restrained emotion, met hers, and in an instant it seemed as though the thing he must not speak were spoken.

Nan flushed scarlet from brow to throat, her eyes widened, and the breath fluttered unevenly between her parted lips. She knew--_she knew_ what Mallory had left unsaid.

"Peter----"

She held out her hands to him with a sudden childish gesture of surrender, and involuntarily he gathered them into his own. At the same moment the door opened to admit the maid and he drew back quickly, while Nan's outstretched hands fell limply to her side.

"This wire's just come for you, miss," said the maid, and from her manner it was quite impossible to guess whether she had observed anything unusual or not. "I took it to Miss Craig by mistake."

Mechanically Nan extracted the thin sheet from its torn envelope. As her eyes absorbed the few lines of writing, her face whitened and she drew her breath in sharply.

The next instant, however, she recovered her poise, and crumpling the telegram into a ball she addressed the maid composedly.

"There's no answer," she said. Adding: "Has anyone arrived yet?"

"Mrs. Seymour is here, miss. And"--listening--"I think Lord St. John must have arrived."

Nan turned to Mallory.

"Then we'd better go, Peter. Come along."

Mallory, as he followed her into the sitting-room, realised that she had all at once retreated a thousand miles away from him. He wondered what the contents of the telegram could have been. The oblong red envelope seemed to have descended suddenly between them like a shutter.

Lord St. John, having only just arrived, was still standing as they entered the room, and Nan rushed into apologies as she shook hands with him and kissed Mrs. Seymour.

"Heaps of apologies for not being here when you arrived. I really haven't any excuse to offer except"--with a small _gamin_ smile--"that I was otherwise occupied!"

"If the occupation was a matter of toilette, we'll excuse you," observed St. John, surveying her with the usual masculine approbation of a white frock defined with touches of black. "The time wasn't wasted."

Nan slipped her arm affectionately into his.

"Oh, _why_ aren't you forty years younger and someone else's uncle?

You'd be such a charming young man!" she exclaimed.

St. John smiled.

"I was, my dear--forty years ago." And he sighed.

During the next half hour the remainder of the guests came dropping in by twos and threes, and after a little desultory conversation everyone settled down to the serious business of bridge. Now and then those who were not playing ventured a subdued murmur of talk amongst themselves, but for the most part the silence of the room was only broken by voices declaring trumps in a rapidly ascending scale of values, and then, after a hectic interval, by the same voices calling out the score in varying degrees of satisfaction or otherwise.

Nan, as a rule, played a good game, but to-day her play was nervous and erratic, and Mallory, her partner of the moment, instinctively connected this with the agitation she had shown on receiving the wire. Ignorant of its contents, he awaited developments.

He had not very long to wait. Shortly afterwards the trill of the door-bell pealed through the flat, followed by a sound of footsteps in the hall, and, a minute later, Maryon Rooke came into the room. A brief stir succeeded his entrance, as Penelope and one or two other non-players exchanged greetings with him. Then he crossed over to where Nan was playing. She was acutely conscious of his tall, loose-limbed figure as he threaded his way carefully between the tables.

"Gambling as usual?" he queried, when he had shaken hands. "And winning--also as usual--I suppose?"

"On the contrary," she retorted. "I've just thrown away a perfectly good trick. Your arrival distracted my attention."

Oddly enough, she had complete control of her voice, although her play and the slight trembling of her fingers as she held her cards fan-wise were sufficient indication to Mallory of the deep waters that had been stirred beneath the surface.

"I'm sorry my return has proved so--inopportune," returned Rooke. As he spoke his eyes rested for a reflective moment upon Peter Mallory, then returned challengingly to Nan's face. The betraying colour flew up under her skin. She understood what he intended to convey as well as though he had clothed his thought in words.

"Having none, partner?"

Mallory's kindly, drawling voice recalled her to the game, and she made an effort to focus her attention on the cards. But it was quite useless.

Her play grew wilder and more erratic with each hand that was dealt, until at last a good no-trump call, completely thrown away by her disastrous tactics, brought the rubber to an end.

"You're not in your usual form this afternoon, Nan," remarked one of her opponents as they all rose from the table. Other tables, too, were breaking up and some of the guests preparing to leave.

"No. I've played abominably," she acquiesced. "I'm sorry, partner"--turning to Peter. "It must be the weather. This heat's intolerable."

He put her apology aside with a quick gesture.

"There's thunder in the air, I think. You shouldn't have troubled to play if you didn't feel inclined."

Nan threw him a glance of grat.i.tude--Peter never seemed to fail her either in big or little things. Then, having settled accounts with her opponents, she moved away to join the chattering knot of departing guests congregated round the doorway.

Mallory's eyes followed her thoughtfully. He had already surmised that Maryon Rooke was the sender of the telegram, and he could see how unmistakably his sudden reappearance had shaken her. He felt baffled.

Did the man still hold her? Was all the striving of the last few months to prove useless? Those long hours of self-effacement when he had tried by every means in his power to restore Nan to a normal interest in life, to be the good comrade she needed at no matter what cost to himself, demanding nothing in return! For it had been a hard struggle to be constantly with the woman he loved and yet keep himself in hand. To Mallory, Rooke's return seemed grotesquely inopportune.

He was roused from his thoughts to the realisation that people were leaving. Everyone appeared to be talking at once and the air was full of the murmur of wins and losses and of sharp-edged criticism of "my partner's play." Maryon Rooke alone showed no signs of moving, but remained standing a little apart near the window, an unlit cigarette in his hand.

"Penelope, do come back to Green Street with me." Kitty's voice was beseeching. "My little milliner was to have had a couple of hats ready for me this afternoon, which means she will arrive with a perfect avalanche of boxes, each containing a d.i.n.kier hat than the last, and I shall fall a helpless victim."

Her husband grinned unkindly.

"Yes, do come along, Penny," he urged. "Then you can lay a restraining hand on Kitty when she's bought the first half dozen."

"There'll just be time before dinner, and the car shall bring you back again," entreated Kitty, and Penelope, knowing that the former would be but clay in the practised hands of her "little milliner," smiled acquiescence.