The talkers

Gilda was in a hurry to get home, and this was the reason:

A telephone call from Sutton had awakened her that morning; she had been glad to hear his voice again; the incident had made the beginning of a grey day very delightful.

Bathed, dressed, and having breakfasted, and still agreeably conscious of her waking pleasure, Gilda had gone lightly about her morning duties.

First there came a consultation with her maid-of-all-work concerning marketing. Then dish-washing. Then sweeping, dusting, airing, and bed-making, in which Gilda aided. Then accounts—Gilda crouched over her desk, very intent upon the few bills and advertisements which alone composed any morning’s mail.

Mending was next in order. Then preparation for a walk, including shopping. After that, luncheon, the leisurely pleasure of a book, or a lazy needle embroidering towels—with contented glances at the comfortable and pretty things surrounding her.

Her bedroom, in blue, was an austere and rather dim place, with an etching or two on the wall, and a slim bed and chair patterned after some prim model of the 18th century.

But Gilda’s living room was done in sunny hues which tinted it with a summery light, even on sour, grey days. And here amid upholstered furniture, a piano, old gilt mirror, a few mezzotints, hyacinths growing in a yellow bowl, a shelf of books, Gilda Greenway lived and had her highly complex being.

Earlier that afternoon she had been embroidering a doiley with buttercups, sewing light-heartedly, with recollections of her pleasant waking to the sound of Sutton’s voice.

She had ventured to ask him to tea; but he couldn’t come until after six. But with this in agreeable prospect the winter day was passing tranquilly. Old, unhappy memories were being lulled by the soothing rhythm of her silken-threaded needle; old sorrows faded; her slowly moving hand at last ceased and lay idle on her knee.

After a while she no longer guided thought, but followed where it strayed.

Very stealthily Thought betrayed her.

It led her into a labyrinth and abandoned her there. Presently, into that magic labyrinth there glided the phantom of him she had followed thither; and, mentally, she went to him as she had that tragic night—yielded again to his swift embrace—to his lips—offering her own——

And awoke to find herself on her feet and every startled instinct striving to arouse her sleeping senses.

Still partly dazed, throbbing with fear and shame, her confused mind was offering no aid. With stiffened limbs and clenched hands she stood blindly facing what threatened her.

Desperately she strove to warn her mind against the warm, sweet impulse invading it—to free her excited heart of that which quickened it—to bar all ingress to that Other One—the invader—now gliding nearer.

As she struggled against the enchantment, she realised that the Other One had surprised her—that sensual thing which Sadoul had summoned, offering her as its abiding place——

Suddenly her anger blazed white. In raging silence she tore the shadowy intruder out of her, drove it forth, barred the citadel of her soul against it.

Flaming, breathless, still bewildered by the battle, she strove to think what must be done. Then fear came—the old dread began to creep upon her—old griefs stirred—the spectre of Sadoul took shape, menacing her with destruction.

Scarcely knowing what she was doing, she ran to her bedroom closet, pulled on her hat and fur coat, and took her muff to which the morning’s violets were still pinned.

Then she went out into the city to seek Sadoul.

Thus it was that she had found him, had accused him, and demanded of him an answer. And, even as she demanded, a flash of clairvoyance answered her own question.

He had lied to her, but she already knew the truth.

So she had left him—hurrying because it was already late.

And now, driving east through the Park, where already electric lights sparkled amid naked trees, only one clear thought remained and persisted unconfused through all the tumult and bewilderment of mind—the calm recollection of her engagement with Sutton.

It was only five when she arrived—time enough to regain composure, change her gown, and make disposition of the few flowers which she had ordered that morning and which had been delivered while she was out.

Aglow from her bath, and a vigourous struggle with her thick, burnished hair, action already was driving from her mind the hateful shadow haunting it. Her maid came from the kitchen, wiped her efficient hands, and got Gilda into her gown.

Her mistress had never had a guest to dinner, so Freda made no inquiry concerning an improbable contingency; nor did Gilda even think of such a possibility.

She went into the sitting-room, examined herself approvingly at full length in the long gilt mirror, pirouetted, and immediately concerned herself with the flowers and the two glass vases destined for them. The carnations she placed on the piano, the roses on the tea-table. Then she lightly made the tour of the room, poked the fire, dusted the hearth, straightened pictures which the interminable jar of street traffic always left askew again.

She crossed to the piano, and, standing, ran scales nervously; then went over to her desk, seated herself, opened a drawer and consulted her bank-book.

She must ask Sutton to advise her. Something must be done with her money.

Delectable aromas from the kitchen reminded her agreeably that dinner was preparing—then, horrified, she rose and opened both windows, calling upon Freda to keep the kitchen door shut.

While the place was airing, she roamed about, casting frequent glances at the clock which had struck six some time ago, and was now preparing to announce the half hour.

An abrupt thought that Sutton might not come almost hurt. She gazed rather piteously around at her preparations—the prim sofa cushions in a row, the straightened pictures, the two vases full of flowers. She was realising how happily she had counted on his coming.

The half hour sounded. She felt she would have scarcely any time at all with him, dinner being so nearly ready.

She went slowly to the windows, closed them, drew the curtains. Her heart was becoming heavy.

Five minutes later she was giving him up.

At a quarter to seven she gave him up.

Confused, hurt, and innocently surprised at the hurt—and with an effort to believe that the disappointment was trivial—she heard seven o’clock strike and turned to nod to Freda, who came to announce her dinner.

“Those yoong yentleman do not come tonight?” inquired Freda.

“No, I think not.”

Gilda walked slowly into her tiny dining room. Appetite had left her.

As she seated herself, her door-bell rang.