Jane sat down on her bed, still furious. After a while she was able to
understand something of this fury. The world was upside down, wrong end
to. Dennison, not Cunningham, should have acted the debonair, the
nonchalant. Before this adventure began he had been witty, amusing,
companionable; now he was as interesting as a bump on a log. At table he
was only a poor counterfeit of his father, whose silence was maintained
admirably, at all times impressively dignified. Whereas at each encounter
Dennison played directly into Cunningham's hands, and the latter was too
much the banterer not to make the most of these episodes.
What if he was worried? Hadn't she more cause to worry than any one else?
For all that, she did not purpose to hide behind the barricaded door of
her cabin. If there was a tragedy in the offing it would not fall less
heavily because one approached it with melancholy countenance.
Heaven knew that she was no infant as regarded men! In the six years of
hospital work she had come into contact with all sorts and conditions of
men. Cunningham might be the greatest scoundrel unhung, but so far as she
was concerned she need have no fear. This knowledge was instinctive.
But when her cheek touched the pillow she began to cry softly. She was so
terribly lonely!