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He rather thought, looking back, that Audrey had known it sooner
than he had. She had certainly known the night she learned of
Chris's death. His terror when she fainted, the very way he had put
her out of his arms when she opened her eyes - those had surely told
her. Yet, had Chris's cynical spirit been watching, there had been
nothing, even then.
There was, between them, nothing now. He had given way to the
people who flocked to her with sympathy, had called her up now and
then, had sent her a few books, some flowers. But the hopelessness
of the situation held him away from her. Once or twice, at first,
he had called her on the telephone and had waited, almost trembling,
for her voice over the wire, only to ask her finally, in a voice
chilled with repression, how she was feeling, or to offer a car for
her to ride in the park. And her replies were equally perfunctory.
She was well. She was still studying, but it was going badly. She
was too stupid to learn all those pot-hooks.


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