English fiction -- 20th century; Husband and wife -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Short stories, English
The solicitor smiled.
“I told you I was—sometimes.”
As the two passed down the stairs—
“I—I suppose you wouldn’t lunch with me, Belinda?”
“Not—not to-day, Ivan.”
“You will one day?”
“Perhaps—one day.”
They passed into Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
The lady’s car was waiting, and Pomeroy opened the door.
“It’s—it’s been a great pleasure,” he said, “to see you again.”
Belinda put out a small hand.
“I hope you’ll be very happy at _Les Iles d’Or_, Ivan.”
Pomeroy took off his hat.
“I might have been,” he said.
With her hand in his, Belinda looked down and away.
“Good-bye,” she said gently.
The hand slipped away, and my lady got into the car.
“You will lunch—one day?” said Ivan.
Belinda nodded.
* * * * *
The London season was drawing to a close.
The two had met little: it seemed as though Belinda was avoiding her
sometime swain.
Naturally enough, the latter’s thoughts were turning towards Biarritz
and _Les Iles d’Or_. He decided, however, that the lady must make the
first move.
One morning a letter arrived.
_July 7th._
_DEAR IVAN,_
_If it’s convenient to you, I propose going to_ Les Iles d’Or
_for a few days next week. Let me know when you want to come,
and I’ll clear out._
_Yours,_
_BELINDA._
A reply went pelting.
_July 8th._
_MY DEAR BELINDA,_
_Of course it’s convenient. I hope you have a topping good time.
Stay as long as you like, dear, and send me a line when you go.
I’d sort of like to follow you._
_IVAN._
Nearly a month slid by.
The weather in England was consistently vile. According to the papers,
Biarritz was bathed in sunshine day after day.
Pomeroy comforted himself with the reflection that Belinda was happy.
Then a telegram arrived.
_Are you at Les Iles d’Or if not I go there next Thursday for a
fortnight have been unable to get off before Seneschal._
Pomeroy read the message with starting eyes.
After a frightful half-hour he sat down and replied by letter.
_August 5th._
_DEAR BELINDA,_
_All right. I wish I’d known you weren’t at Biarritz, because
I’d have gone. Never mind. A fortnight from next Thursday will
bring us to the 21st. That’ll be all right because I shan’t want
to come before September 5th. When you leave you might tell the
agent to expect me that day._
_Yours,_
_IVAN._
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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