mind as quickly and completely as possible. And out of your mind, too, so that you can both carry on with the marriage as if it hadn’t happened. Which seems to me a very sensible way of taking it——”
“But how on earth can he suppose that this extraordinary carry-on will put it out of my mind?” protested Mary. “It just makes me worry about it more and more——”
“Only if you let yourself,” interrupted Katharine eagerly. “Honestly, Mary, you’ll be surprised how quickly you’ll forget about the whole thing if you’ll only let it all slide, as he obviously wants you to. It’s not as if you can do him or anyone else any good by letting yourself be weighed down by guilt for evermore. Why, if you’ll only accept his story, back him up in it—even tell it to yourself in your spare time!—why, then, before you know where you are, you’ll find yourself actually believing it—and him too! Really you will! And then the whole thing can fade into oblivion for ever—only with both of you that much wiser for the experience. So do stop tormenting yourself, Mary. Please !”
There was something dreadful in the way Mary swallowed the cold remnant of coffee skin, as if it was some delicious titbit. Her empty cup clattered down into its saucer, and she stared across at Katharine with large, questioning eyes, seeking, it seemed, to be convinced. For surely Katharine’s advice, whatever one might think of its ethics, was offering her far and away the easiest escape from her situation. As she stared, slowly, miraculously, the uncertainty flickered and faded from her eyes, leaving them clear and brilliant, empty of doubt.
“You’re quite right, Katharine,” she said slowly, almost luxuriously, as if savouring to the last mouthful her victory over her own conscience. “After all, I mustn’t be selfish, must I? Alan’s own self-respect is at stake as well as mine. I mean, he’d hate it to be known at his job that he had a wife—like that. For a man like Alan—it would hit him very hard. You’re right, Katharine; I’ll do it! I’ll repeat his story to everyone. To him—to myself——”
“Even to me, just for practice!” laughed Katharine; and it was with a feeling of enormous relief—of pride in a job well done, in an important victory gained—that she hurried back to her office that afternoon.
CHAPTER IX
T HAT NIGHT Katharine had a curiously vivid dream. Once again she seemed to be in the deserted cafeteria, but this time it was not Mary who was her companion, but a dark man in a raincoat. The raincoat was lightish in colour, shabby, and hung shapelessly from his sloping shoulders; and the man himself was dark, not merely in the sense of having dark hair and complexion, but more as if his whole face was enveloped in darkness; as if a deep shadow was thick upon him, hiding his features. At the beginning of the dream, Katharine was not paying much attention to the man; it seemed natural that he should be there. Her attention was wholly taken up with anxiety about the time. For before she could go back to the office, she must clear these tables; pile on to trays all those dirty cups and plates, and wipe away the crumbs, the flakes of pastry, and the sugary spills of tea. Not just from her own table, but from all the tables—dozens, scores, hundreds of them, scattered in derelict emptiness all over this great, echoing room. And it was then that she noticed that not a single other customer remained—no waitresses—nothing. Just herself and this man. And for some reason, inexplicable to the ordinary waking mind, she knew that she could not start on her task of clearing up while the man was still sitting there. She was impatient for him to go—to leave her—to get out of her dream: for somewhere, already, long before waking, there was growing in her brain a flickering awareness that all this was only a dream.
But the man would not go: and as Katharine turned to look at him more closely, perhaps
“But how on earth can he suppose that this extraordinary carry-on will put it out of my mind?” protested Mary. “It just makes me worry about it more and more——”
“Only if you let yourself,” interrupted Katharine eagerly. “Honestly, Mary, you’ll be surprised how quickly you’ll forget about the whole thing if you’ll only let it all slide, as he obviously wants you to. It’s not as if you can do him or anyone else any good by letting yourself be weighed down by guilt for evermore. Why, if you’ll only accept his story, back him up in it—even tell it to yourself in your spare time!—why, then, before you know where you are, you’ll find yourself actually believing it—and him too! Really you will! And then the whole thing can fade into oblivion for ever—only with both of you that much wiser for the experience. So do stop tormenting yourself, Mary. Please !”
There was something dreadful in the way Mary swallowed the cold remnant of coffee skin, as if it was some delicious titbit. Her empty cup clattered down into its saucer, and she stared across at Katharine with large, questioning eyes, seeking, it seemed, to be convinced. For surely Katharine’s advice, whatever one might think of its ethics, was offering her far and away the easiest escape from her situation. As she stared, slowly, miraculously, the uncertainty flickered and faded from her eyes, leaving them clear and brilliant, empty of doubt.
“You’re quite right, Katharine,” she said slowly, almost luxuriously, as if savouring to the last mouthful her victory over her own conscience. “After all, I mustn’t be selfish, must I? Alan’s own self-respect is at stake as well as mine. I mean, he’d hate it to be known at his job that he had a wife—like that. For a man like Alan—it would hit him very hard. You’re right, Katharine; I’ll do it! I’ll repeat his story to everyone. To him—to myself——”
“Even to me, just for practice!” laughed Katharine; and it was with a feeling of enormous relief—of pride in a job well done, in an important victory gained—that she hurried back to her office that afternoon.
CHAPTER IX
T HAT NIGHT Katharine had a curiously vivid dream. Once again she seemed to be in the deserted cafeteria, but this time it was not Mary who was her companion, but a dark man in a raincoat. The raincoat was lightish in colour, shabby, and hung shapelessly from his sloping shoulders; and the man himself was dark, not merely in the sense of having dark hair and complexion, but more as if his whole face was enveloped in darkness; as if a deep shadow was thick upon him, hiding his features. At the beginning of the dream, Katharine was not paying much attention to the man; it seemed natural that he should be there. Her attention was wholly taken up with anxiety about the time. For before she could go back to the office, she must clear these tables; pile on to trays all those dirty cups and plates, and wipe away the crumbs, the flakes of pastry, and the sugary spills of tea. Not just from her own table, but from all the tables—dozens, scores, hundreds of them, scattered in derelict emptiness all over this great, echoing room. And it was then that she noticed that not a single other customer remained—no waitresses—nothing. Just herself and this man. And for some reason, inexplicable to the ordinary waking mind, she knew that she could not start on her task of clearing up while the man was still sitting there. She was impatient for him to go—to leave her—to get out of her dream: for somewhere, already, long before waking, there was growing in her brain a flickering awareness that all this was only a dream.
But the man would not go: and as Katharine turned to look at him more closely, perhaps
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