The Voice in the Fog

"Do you think I ever will?" asked Thomas. He bent forward and began

tapping the clay with his racket. How to run away!

Kitty, as she looked down at his head, knew that there were a dozen

absurd wishes in her heart, none of which could possibly ever become

facts. He was so different from the self-assertive young men she knew,

with their silly flirtations, their inane small-talk, their capacity

for Scotch whisky and long hours. For days she had studied him as

through microscopic lenses; his guilelessness was real. It just simply

could not be; her ears had deceived her that memorable foggy night in

London. And yet, always in the dark his voice was that of one of the

two men who had talked near her cab. Who was he? Not a single corner

of the veil had he yet lifted, and here it was, the middle of August;

and except for the week at Bar Harbor she had been with him day by day,

laid she knew not how many traps, over which he had stepped serenely,

warily or unconsciously she could not tell which. It made her heart

ache; for, manly and simple as he appeared, honest as he seemed, he was

either a rogue or the dupe of one, which was almost as bad. But to-day

she was determined to learn which he was.

"What have you done with the romance?"

"I have put it away in the bottom of my trunk. The seventh rejection

convinces me that I am not a story-teller."

He had a desperate longing to tell her all, then and there. It was too

late. He would be arrested as a smuggler, turned out of the house as

an impostor.

"Don't give up so easily. There are still ninety-three other editors

waiting to read it."

"I have my doubts. Still, it was a pleasant pastime." He sat back and

stared at the sea. He must go this day; he must invent some way of

leaving.

Then came the Machiavellian way; only, he managed as usual to execute

it in his blundering English style. Without warning he dropped his

racket, caught Kitty in his arms tightly and roughly, kissed her cheek,

rose, and strode swiftly across the courts, into the villa. It was

done. He could go now; he knew very well he had to go.

His subsequent actions were methodical enough; a shower, a thorough

rub-down, and then into his workaday clothes. He packed his trunk and

hand-luggage, overlooked nothing that was his, and went down into the

living-room where he knew he would find Killigrew with the morning

papers. He felt oddly light-headed; but he had no time to analyze the

cause.