The Little Nugget. P. G. Wodehouse

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      And then—undoubtedly four o'clock in the morning is no time for a man to try to be single-minded and decisive—I wavered. I had intended to tear the thing in pieces without a glance, and fling it into the wastepaper-basket. But I took the glance and I hesitated.

      The girl in the photograph was small and slight, and she looked straight out of the picture with large eyes that met and challenged mine. How well I remembered them, those Irish-blue eyes under their expressive, rather heavy brows. How exactly the photographer had caught that half-wistful, half-impudent look, the chin tilted, the mouth curving into a smile.

      In a wave all my doubts had surged back upon me. Was this mere sentimentalism, a four-in-the-morning tribute to the pathos of the flying years, or did she really fill my soul and stand guard over it so that no successor could enter in and usurp her place?

      I had no answer, unless the fact that I replaced the photograph in its drawer was one. I felt that this thing could not be decided now. It was more difficult than I had thought.

      All my gloom had returned by the time I was in bed. Hours seemed to pass while I tossed restlessly aching for sleep.

      When I woke my last coherent thought was still clear in my mind.

       It was a passionate vow that, come what might, if those Irish eyes

       were to haunt me till my death, I would play the game loyally with

       Cynthia.

      II

      The telephone bell rang just as I was getting ready to call at Marlow Square and inform Mrs. Drassilis of the position of affairs. Cynthia, I imagined, would have broken the news already, which would mitigate the embarrassment of the interview to some extent; but the recollection of my last night's encounter with Mrs. Drassilis prevented me from looking forward with any joy to the prospect of meeting her again.

      Cynthia's voice greeted me as I unhooked the receiver.

      'Hullo, Peter! Is that you? I want you to come round here at once.'

      'I was just starting,' I said.

      'I don't mean Marlow Square. I'm not there. I'm at the Guelph. Ask for Mrs. Ford's suite. It's very important. I'll tell you all about it when you get here. Come as soon as you can.'

      My rooms were conveniently situated for visits to the Hotel Guelph. A walk of a couple of minutes took me there. Mrs. Ford's suite was on the third floor. I rang the bell and Cynthia opened the door to me.

      'Come in,' she said. 'You're a dear to be so quick.'

      'My rooms are only just round the corner.' She shut the door, and for the first time we looked at one another. I could not say that I was nervous, but there was certainly, to me, a something strange in the atmosphere. Last night seemed a long way off and somehow a little unreal. I suppose I must have shown this in my manner, for she suddenly broke what had amounted to a distinct pause by giving a little laugh. 'Peter,' she said, 'you're embarrassed.' I denied the charge warmly, but without real conviction. I was embarrassed. 'Then you ought to be,' she said. 'Last night, when I was looking my very best in a lovely dress, you asked me to marry you. Now you see me again in cold blood, and you're wondering how you can back out of it without hurting my feelings.'

      I smiled. She did not. I ceased to smile. She was looking at me in a very peculiar manner.

      'Peter,' she said, 'are you sure?'

      'My dear old Cynthia,' I said, 'what's the matter with you?'

      'You are sure?' she persisted.

      'Absolutely, entirely sure.' I had a vision of two large eyes looking at me out of a photograph. It came and went in a flash.

      I kissed Cynthia.

      'What quantities of hair you have,' I said. 'It's a shame to cover it up.' She was not responsive. 'You're in a very queer mood today, Cynthia,' I went on. 'What's the matter?'

      'I've been thinking.'

      'Out with it. Something has gone wrong.' An idea flashed upon me.

       'Er—has your mother—is your mother very angry about—'

      'Mother's delighted. She always liked you, Peter.'

      I had the self-restraint to check a grin.

      'Then what is it?' I said. 'Tired after the dance?'

      'Nothing as simple as that.'

      'Tell me.'

      'It's so difficult to put it into words.'

      'Try.'

      She was playing with the papers on the table, her face turned away. For a moment she did not speak.

      'I've been worrying myself, Peter,' she said at last. 'You are so chivalrous and unselfish. You're quixotic. It's that that is troubling me. Are you marrying me just because you're sorry for me? Don't speak. I can tell you now if you will just let me say straight out what's in my mind. We have known each other for two years now. You know all about me. You know how—how unhappy I am at home. Are you marrying me just because you pity me and want to take me out of all that?'

      'My dear girl!'

      'You haven't answered my question.'

      'I answered it two minutes ago when you asked me if—'

      'You do love me?'

      'Yes.'

      All this time she had been keeping her face averted, but now she turned and looked into my eyes with an abrupt intensity which, I confess, startled me. Her words startled me more.

      'Peter, do you love me as much as you loved Audrey Blake?'

      In the instant which divided her words from my reply my mind flew hither and thither, trying to recall an occasion when I could have mentioned Audrey to her. I was convinced that I had not done so. I never mentioned Audrey to anyone.

      There is a grain of superstition in the most level-headed man. I am not particularly level-headed, and I have more than a grain in me. I was shaken. Ever since I had asked Cynthia to marry me, it seemed as if the ghost of Audrey had come back into my life.

      'Good Lord!' I cried. 'What do you know of Audrey Blake?'

      She turned her face away again.

      'Her name seems to affect you very strongly,' she said quietly.

      I recovered myself.

      'If you ask an old soldier,' I said, 'he will tell you that a wound, long after it has healed, is apt to give you an occasional twinge.'

      'Not if it has really healed.'

      'Yes, when it has really healed—when you can hardly remember how you were fool enough to get it.'

      She said nothing.

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