"Leaving--England!" she echoed the words in a whisper.

"Yes," he went on, ramming tobacco into his pipe, hardly conscious of what he was doing.

"You remember that I told you I always went with the tide. Well, three weeks ago it washed me up in London, and now it's washing me off again. I'm going to Italy."

"Oh--what for?" She asked the question without expression.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know; nothing in particular. I've been before, of course.

I'm just going to take a stick and a knapsack, and walk around the country, sleep anywhere--eat anything--and enjoy myself."

"I wish I could come with you." The words broke from her with a little cry, and Feathers raised his eyes at last.

He saw the pallor of her face and the distress in her eyes, and his heart began to race, but he only said very quietly: "You'd soon get tired of living my Bohemian life. When you go to Italy Chris will take you, and you must do the thing properly."

She seemed hardly to hear. She went on pa.s.sionately: "It seems as if I must lose all my friends. It isn't fair! First there was Mr.

Atkins, and now ..."

"Atkins!" said Feathers sharply.

"Yes." She laughed recklessly. "He went away because ... oh, I suppose I ought not to tell you, really, but I know you think that n.o.body cares for me--because I'm so uninteresting, but he did--he was only a boy, but he was really fond of me--and so ... so I sent him away! And now you are going, too! ... I wish I could die!" said Marie Celeste, in a tragic whisper.

There was a long silence. Feathers' big hands hung limply between his knees, his fingers still clutching at his pipe, then he said slowly, as if he were carefully choosing his words:

"If young Atkins could be man enough to--go--what would you think of me--if I stayed?"

His voice was quite quiet, though a little hoa.r.s.e, but its very steadiness seemed both to conceal and reveal more than an outburst of pa.s.sion would have done, and Marie gave a little stifled cry.

And Feathers went on, speaking in the same quiet voice:

"You see, Mrs. Lawless, I know the world, and you do not! I know what a mountain of regrets one lays up for the future if--if one forgets other things ... Chris is a good fellow--until he married you I thought him the best chap in the world--I think so still, except that I cannot forgive him for having failed to make you happy; but ... but my failure will be worse than his, if I--if I try to deceive myself with the belief that I can ... can give you what he cannot."

"I have always been happy with you," said Marie in a whisper.

Her cheeks were like fire, and she felt that she could never look him in the face again, and yet her whole desire was to keep him with her--to prevent him from walking out of her life, as she knew he intended doing.

She felt very much as she had done that morning when he saved her from drowning--a terrible feeling of hopelessness and despair, until the moment when the grip of his strong hands caught her.

He had saved her life then. Was he going to let her drown now in the depths of her own misery?

Once he went away it would be the end of everything, she knew. He would never come back any more, and for the rest of her life she would have to go on trying to make the best of things, trying to get used to having a bachelor husband.

She knew that the silence had lasted for a long time before Feathers said gently: "There are some people coming, Mrs. Lawless!"

She looked up then with fiery eyes.

"Well, you haven't gone yet," she said defiantly. "Ever so many things may happen before you do."

The day had been a failure, and the drive home was a silent one.

Marie sat beside Chris as she had done before, and her eyes were very bright as she looked steadily ahead of her down the road.

It was like looking into the future, she thought, as London drew nearer and nearer, and the many lights were symbolical of the happiness that lay in wait for her.

She refused to believe that Feathers really would go away. Her whole heart and soul were bent on keeping him near her.

She was very young, or she would have seen the impossibility of the whole thing as he did. Reaction was the power driving her. She who had hitherto had nothing found herself all at once with full hands, and she clasped her treasure to her desperately.

Chris put her down at the house and drove around to the garage with Feathers; he was a long time gone--and when he came back he was alone.

Marie peeped over the banisters when she heard his voice in the hall below, and a faint chill touched her heart when she saw that Feathers had not come in with him. She felt like a disappointed child as she went back to her room.

She had changed her frock to please Feathers. There was somebody at last who cared how she looked. Though he would have said nothing, perhaps would hardly have glanced her way, she would have known that he liked to see her look pretty.

Now that he was not coming she had lost all interest. Her face was listless as she crossed the landing to go downstairs.

As she did so, the door of Chris' bedroom opened, and he called to her:

"I want you, Marie Celeste."

Marie hesitated.

"It's nearly dinner-time; what do you want?"

"I want to speak to you."

One of the servants was coming upstairs, and more for appearance sake than anything Marie obeyed.

"Yes." She stood in the doorway waiting.

Chris had made no attempt to change for dinner, though he had been in some time. He stretched a hand past her as she stood there and shut the door. Then he said abruptly:

"I'm going away to-morrow, Marie. I'm sick of London." He did not look at her as he spoke, but he heard the quick breath she drew, and knew it was one of relief.

His voice was hard as he went on, "I want you to come with me."

"No." She was hardly conscious of having spoken the word till she saw the sudden change in his face, but he kept himself under admirable control.

"Why not?" he asked.

She looked away from him.

"I would rather stay here--that is all."

"But I wish you to come."

She looked up.

"You have never wanted me to go anywhere with you before."