"What shall I say? Shall I tell you, or shall I leave you in the dark—as I must always leave her? What shall I say except that I am accursed of men? Yes; I have loved something—her mother. For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog. He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. She recognized the face but could not quite place it. It’s the feinting tricks you have to watch for. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. “I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely. To-night we leave for Marseilles.
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