"Do you think I ever will?" asked Thomas. He bent forward and began
tapping the clay with his racket. How to run away!
Kitty, as she looked down at his head, knew that there were a dozen
absurd wishes in her heart, none of which could possibly ever become
facts. He was so different from the self-assertive young men she knew,
with their silly flirtations, their inane small-talk, their capacity
for Scotch whisky and long hours. For days she had studied him as
through microscopic lenses; his guilelessness was real. It just simply
could not be; her ears had deceived her that memorable foggy night in
London. And yet, always in the dark his voice was that of one of the
two men who had talked near her cab. Who was he? Not a single corner
of the veil had he yet lifted, and here it was, the middle of August;
and except for the week at Bar Harbor she had been with him day by day,
laid she knew not how many traps, over which he had stepped serenely,
warily or unconsciously she could not tell which. It made her heart
ache; for, manly and simple as he appeared, honest as he seemed, he was
either a rogue or the dupe of one, which was almost as bad. But to-day
she was determined to learn which he was.
"What have you done with the romance?"
"I have put it away in the bottom of my trunk. The seventh rejection
convinces me that I am not a story-teller."
He had a desperate longing to tell her all, then and there. It was too
late. He would be arrested as a smuggler, turned out of the house as
an impostor.
"Don't give up so easily. There are still ninety-three other editors
waiting to read it."
"I have my doubts. Still, it was a pleasant pastime." He sat back and
stared at the sea. He must go this day; he must invent some way of
leaving.
Then came the Machiavellian way; only, he managed as usual to execute
it in his blundering English style. Without warning he dropped his
racket, caught Kitty in his arms tightly and roughly, kissed her cheek,
rose, and strode swiftly across the courts, into the villa. It was
done. He could go now; he knew very well he had to go.
His subsequent actions were methodical enough; a shower, a thorough
rub-down, and then into his workaday clothes. He packed his trunk and
hand-luggage, overlooked nothing that was his, and went down into the
living-room where he knew he would find Killigrew with the morning
papers. He felt oddly light-headed; but he had no time to analyze the
cause.