you know. I was engaged to you, wasn’t I? I hadn’t lost my memory then. Was I planning a spot of bigamy, or had there been a divorce?”
“No—I asked her that. She said no, you were just all washed-up.”
“Then I was going to lure you into a bigamous marriage, I suppose. Wake up, darling! I didn’t hint at having a guilty secret, did I?”
“N-no—” Her eyes widened suddenly.
“What’s the matter now?”
“I was trying to think—whether you ever really said—anything about getting married. You said you loved me, and you asked me if I loved you, but… Of course there was very little time—only three days… Oh, Giles, it does seem such a long time ago!”
He picked her up, kissed her hard, and set her down again.
“I shouldn’t have talked like that to a girl like you unless I meant business—not my line of country. Now you sit down good and peaceful and keep on telling yourself that everything’s going to be all right! If you cry any more, I’ll beat you. I’m going to have a heart-to-heart talk with Miss Carola Roland, and I think she’s going to be sorry she tried it on.”
Meade ran after him into the lobby.
“Giles—you’ll be careful, won’t you? You won’t do anything silly? You won’t—”
He turned on the threshold.
“If she gets what she deserves, I shall probably wring her neck!” he said, and banged the door.
CHAPTER 16
Carola Roland opened the door of No. 8. When she saw Giles her eyes lighted up and her lips smiled. Pleasure and amusement coursed through her. She had been bored, bored, bored. Here was entertainment. She had an old score to pay, and here was Giles delivered into her hands for payment. She said in her best Mayfair manner,
“How very nice of you! Do come in.”
Giles’ response lacked polish. He was plainly an angry man. He stalked into the sitting-room, and then turned to confront her.
“Miss Roland?”
The enormous blue eyes widened.
“Oh, no.”
“I understand that you are making some preposterous claim.”
The scarlet lips smiled widely.
“There’s nothing preposterous about it. You know as well as I do that I am Mrs. Armitage.”
Giles stood and stared at her. She wore a long white dress, with a string of pearls about an admirably white neck. The bright hair rose above her forehead in a high wave and then fell curling about her neck. She had a perfect figure, a fine skin, and eyes which reminded him of the nursery and his cousin Barbara’s favourite baby doll—that wide cool gaze, the size, the darkened lashes. As far as he could remember he had never seen her before. She was to his every sense strange and unknown. He could not believe in any contact, any relationship between them.
And then his eyes went past her and he saw his photograph upon the mantelpiece with the signature black across the corner.
It was a plain-clothes photograph, head and shoulders, done just before the war. He remembered having it done—a cold day with a wind, and he had met Barbara afterwards and taken her out to lunch. She was going out to join her husband in Palestine and frightfully pleased about it. He could remember all this, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember a single thing about Carola Roland who said she was Carola Armitage.
He went over to the hearth, picked the photograph up, and turned it over. Bare, blank cardboard. He set it down again.
Carola’s laugh met him as he turned.
“Giles, darling—how unbelieving! And what a rotten memory you’ve got! Not very flattering, are you?”
The anger in his eyes delighted her.
“Are you claiming to be my wife?”
“Giles—darling!”
“Because if you are, you must prove it. When were we married—and where—and who were the witnesses?”
She arched her brows. The blue eyes opened a little wider. The likeness to Barbara’s doll was intensified.
“Let me see—it was in March—March 17th 1940—just eighteen months ago. And we were married in a register office, and
“No—I asked her that. She said no, you were just all washed-up.”
“Then I was going to lure you into a bigamous marriage, I suppose. Wake up, darling! I didn’t hint at having a guilty secret, did I?”
“N-no—” Her eyes widened suddenly.
“What’s the matter now?”
“I was trying to think—whether you ever really said—anything about getting married. You said you loved me, and you asked me if I loved you, but… Of course there was very little time—only three days… Oh, Giles, it does seem such a long time ago!”
He picked her up, kissed her hard, and set her down again.
“I shouldn’t have talked like that to a girl like you unless I meant business—not my line of country. Now you sit down good and peaceful and keep on telling yourself that everything’s going to be all right! If you cry any more, I’ll beat you. I’m going to have a heart-to-heart talk with Miss Carola Roland, and I think she’s going to be sorry she tried it on.”
Meade ran after him into the lobby.
“Giles—you’ll be careful, won’t you? You won’t do anything silly? You won’t—”
He turned on the threshold.
“If she gets what she deserves, I shall probably wring her neck!” he said, and banged the door.
CHAPTER 16
Carola Roland opened the door of No. 8. When she saw Giles her eyes lighted up and her lips smiled. Pleasure and amusement coursed through her. She had been bored, bored, bored. Here was entertainment. She had an old score to pay, and here was Giles delivered into her hands for payment. She said in her best Mayfair manner,
“How very nice of you! Do come in.”
Giles’ response lacked polish. He was plainly an angry man. He stalked into the sitting-room, and then turned to confront her.
“Miss Roland?”
The enormous blue eyes widened.
“Oh, no.”
“I understand that you are making some preposterous claim.”
The scarlet lips smiled widely.
“There’s nothing preposterous about it. You know as well as I do that I am Mrs. Armitage.”
Giles stood and stared at her. She wore a long white dress, with a string of pearls about an admirably white neck. The bright hair rose above her forehead in a high wave and then fell curling about her neck. She had a perfect figure, a fine skin, and eyes which reminded him of the nursery and his cousin Barbara’s favourite baby doll—that wide cool gaze, the size, the darkened lashes. As far as he could remember he had never seen her before. She was to his every sense strange and unknown. He could not believe in any contact, any relationship between them.
And then his eyes went past her and he saw his photograph upon the mantelpiece with the signature black across the corner.
It was a plain-clothes photograph, head and shoulders, done just before the war. He remembered having it done—a cold day with a wind, and he had met Barbara afterwards and taken her out to lunch. She was going out to join her husband in Palestine and frightfully pleased about it. He could remember all this, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember a single thing about Carola Roland who said she was Carola Armitage.
He went over to the hearth, picked the photograph up, and turned it over. Bare, blank cardboard. He set it down again.
Carola’s laugh met him as he turned.
“Giles, darling—how unbelieving! And what a rotten memory you’ve got! Not very flattering, are you?”
The anger in his eyes delighted her.
“Are you claiming to be my wife?”
“Giles—darling!”
“Because if you are, you must prove it. When were we married—and where—and who were the witnesses?”
She arched her brows. The blue eyes opened a little wider. The likeness to Barbara’s doll was intensified.
“Let me see—it was in March—March 17th 1940—just eighteen months ago. And we were married in a register office, and
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