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"You do believe in God," she said bitterly. "You believe in yourself." "It comes to this, Francey, doesn't it? You're through with me? You don't care any more?" Her eyes narrowed with a kind of desperate humour. It was as though for a moment she had regained her old vision of him a sad queer little boy. "You say that because you want to shirk the truth.
It was as though she had neither seen nor cared. Christine turned her faded, groping eyes thankfully in her direction. "Of course, my dear. Robert please " "No," he said; "we don't have tea, Francey." "But, Robert, at least when we have guests " "Or guests," he added, with a set, white face. Cosgrave laughed. He made a comic grimace.
He turned away from her stammering: "I've no business here I've no business to be your doctor or anyone's doctor. I think I must be going mad." She shook her head. "No no only too serious, mon pauvre jeune homme. But I like your your Francey. I think she and I be good friends some'ow. She would see things 'ow I see them." And you're right. "One of these days you be friends again too.
Ricardo drifted in on one of his strange, distressful visits to Christine, and drove them out of doors to roam the drowsy Sunday streets, hand in hand, like any other pair of vulgar, homeless lovers. For Francey could not stay when Mr. Ricardo came. His hatred of her was a burning, poisonous sore that gave no peace to any of them. "It's a sort of jealousy," Robert reflected.
He would prove to Francey that she must let Howard and Gertie go to the devil and they would never quarrel again. He came to the head of the stairs where they met after the morning's work. The steps were very broad and white and shallow, and gave the impression of great distance. Mr.
Now it was her turn to be overtaken and torn down. Only sentimentalists like Francey Wilmot could see in her a cause for pity or regret. They sat opposite each other through a long silence. He gave her time. He showed her consideration. He thought of the pale-blue chauffeur waiting in the biting cold of a winter's afternoon.
"I'll make a poem of that one day, when I'm awfully drunk, and don't know what I'm doing." But Robert sat up sharply, frowning at her, white, almost accusing. "When did you live in Italy, Francey?" "Last year all last year." "You mean you chucked your work everything just to play round ?" Howard yawned prodigiously. "You don't get our Francey's point of view, Stonehouse. You don't understand."
Though I don't know I'd be happy enough, if I were you always seem to come out on top not to care for any damn thing on earth, except that not even Francey Wilmot or even me just a sort of pug-dog you trailed behind on the end of a string a sort of mascot." He was going to sleep. He waggled his arm feebly, groping for Stonehouse. "Say you'll come. I'd be awfully proud show you off, you know.
They had tested every inch of him, and it would have been stupid to pretend that he did not know his own mettle. He heard his footsteps ring out through the fitful whimpering of the wind and they seemed to mark the rhythm of his life a steady, resolute progression. The lighter fall of Francey Wilmot's feet beside him was like an echo. But yet it had its own quality. Not less resolute.
He was too numb and stupefied even to think of Francey, but there was magic in that dirty, blood-stained handkerchief. It might have been a saint's relic, or a Red Indian's totem, preserving him from evil. He knew nothing about saints or totems, but he knew that Francey was good and stronger than any of them. Downstairs the silence remained unbroken.
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