outâ¦.â
âWhere to?â asked Mr. Satterthwaite.
The actor made a careless gesture.
âAnywhere. What does it matter?â He added with a slight change of voice, âProbably Monte Carlo.â And then, retrieving what his sensitive taste could not but feel to be a slight anticlimax, âIn the heart of the desert or the heart of the crowdâwhat does it matter? The inmost core of man is solitaryâalone. I have always beenâa lonely soulâ¦.â
It was clearly an exit line.
He nodded to Mr. Satterthwaite and left the room.
Mr. Satterthwaite got up and prepared to follow his host to bed.
âBut it wonât be the heart of a desert,â he thought to himself with a slight chuckle.
On the following morning Sir Charles begged Mr. Satterthwaite to forgive him if he went up to town that day.
âDonât cut your visit short, my dear fellow. You were staying till tomorrow, and I know youâre going on to the Harbertons at Tavistock. The car will take you there. What I feel is that, having come to my decision, I mustnât look back. No, I mustnât look back.â
Sir Charles squared his shoulders with manly resolution, wrung Mr. Satterthwaiteâs hand with fervour and delivered him over to the capable Miss Milray.
Miss Milray seemed prepared to deal with the situation as she had dealt with any other. She expressed no surprise or emotion at Sir Charlesâs overnight decision. Nor could Mr. Satterthwaite draw her out on the point. Neither sudden deaths nor sudden changes of plan could excite Miss Milray. She accepted whatever happened as a fact and proceeded to cope with it in an efficient way. She telephoned to the house agents, despatched wires abroad, and wrote busily on her typewriter. Mr. Satterthwaite escaped from the depressing spectacle of so much efficiency by strolling down to the quay. He was walking aimlessly along when he was seized by the arm from behind, and turned to confront a white-faced girl.
âWhatâs all this?â demanded Egg fiercely.
âAll what?â parried Mr. Satterthwaite.
âItâs all over the place that Sir Charles is going awayâthat heâs going to sell Crowâs Nest.â
âQuite true.â
âHe is going away?â
âHeâs gone.â
âOh!â Egg relinquished his arm. She looked suddenly like a very small child who has been cruelly hurt.
Mr. Satterthwaite did not know what to say.
âWhere has he gone?â
âAbroad. To the South of France.â
âOh!â
Still he did not know what to say. For clearly there was more than hero-worship hereâ¦.
Pitying her, he was turning over various consolatory words in his mind when she spoke againâand startled him.
âWhich of those damned bitches is it?â asked Egg fiercely.
Mr. Satterthwaite stared at her, his mouth fallen open in surprise. Egg took him by the arm again and shook him violently.
âYou must know,â she cried. âWhich of them? The grey-haired one or the other?â
âMy dear, I donât know what youâre talking about.â
âYou do. You must. Of course itâs some woman. He liked meâI know he liked me. One of those women the other night must have seen it, too, and determined to get him away from me. I hate women. Lousy cats. Did you see her clothesâthat one with the green hair? They made me gnash my teeth with envy. A woman who has clothes like that has a pullâyou canât deny it. Sheâs quite old and ugly as sin, really, but what does it matter. She makes everyone else look like a dowdy curateâs wife. Is it her? Or is it theother one with the grey hair? Sheâs amusingâyou can see that. Sheâs got masses of S.A. And he called her Angie. It canât be the one like a wilted cabbage. Is it the smart one or is it Angie?â
âMy dear, youâve got the most extraordinary ideas into your