She ran forward, not kissing him, as he noted, but otherwise acting as though no least ill were troubling her.
In fact, she appeared quite enthusiastic as she added that now he was in time for the lovely autumn scenery; every day this place seemed lovelier.
And, for the moment, Cowperwood entered upon this play-acting the while he wondered how long it would be before the real storm broke.
But since Berenice’s gaiety continued with an invitation to go over to the houseboat for a cocktail, he interrupted with:
“Let’s walk down by the river, do you mind, Bevy?” And taking her by the arm he led her down to the tree-shaded path.
“Bevy,” he began, “there’s something I have to say to you before we do anything else.”
He fixed her with a hard, cold gaze. And as instantly she modified her manner.
“Will you pardon me just a minute, Frank, while I speak to Mrs. Evans . . .”
“No,” he said, decisively, “don’t go, Bevy.
This is something much more important than Mrs. Evans or anything else.
I want to tell you about Lorna Maris.
You probably know about her, but I want to tell you, anyway.”
As he spoke she remained silent, walking beside him softly and evenly.
“You know of Lorna Maris?” he asked.
“Yes, I know.
A clipping and some pictures were sent me from New York.
She is very beautiful.”
He noted her reserve.
No complaint.
No request for information.
At the same time, all the more urgent was it that he should discover her true mood.
“Quite a sudden turnabout from all I’ve been saying to you, isn’t it, Bevy?”
“Yes, I think it is.
But you’re not going to tell me you’re sorry, I hope.”
The corners of her mouth suggested the least trace of irony.
“No, Bevy, I’m not going to tell you anything except what happened.
Then you can judge for yourself.
Do you wish to hear about it?”
“Not so much.
But if you really want to talk about it, all right.
I think I understand how it happened.”
“Bevy!” he exclaimed, pausing and looking at her, admiration and genuine affection in his every line.
“We can’t—at least, I can’t—get anywhere this way.
The only reason I want to tell you is because whatever you’re thinking, I want you to know that I still care deeply for you.
That may sound shallow and false after all that has happened since I last saw you, but I believe you know it’s true.
You know and I know that there are personality values that are not to be measured by physical beauty or sexual sensations alone.
As between one attractive woman and another, and one man and another judging them, there are always other modifying things: character, understanding, extreme congeniality of purpose and ideals, and . . .”
He paused as she interrupted rather icily: “Really?
Of sufficient weight to make a difference in one’s conduct, loyalty, or constancy?”
The semisubmerged flash in her eyes warned him that tergiversation in her case was of no least value.
“Enough to make a very great difference, Bevy.
You see me here, don’t you?
Ten days ago in New York . . .”
Berenice interrupted him. “Yes, I know.
You left her after a delightful summer in her company. You had enough of her for the time being. And so London, your plans to re-establish yourself . . .” Her pretty mouth curled scornfully.
“But really, Frank, you need not clarify all this to me.
I am very much like yourself, you know.
I can explain as cleverly as you can; only being obligated to you for many things, and perhaps willing to sacrifice to a degree if I continue to need them, I must be more careful than you, much more careful.
Or . . .” She paused and gazed at him, and he felt as though he had received a body blow.
“But, Berenice, those things are true.