He looked round: Superbus was at the door, a buff envelope in his hand. It was no use; he went down on his knees and groped for the dustpan. He was beaten.
“A wire for you, ma’am. I never knew they came on Sunday.”
“Another! ‘Aberdeen. Very good journey and looking forward to my return. Gordon.’”
“I say, what a nasty journey!” corrected Bobbie.
“Do you know, I’m beginning to feel quite different toward Gordon,” she said.
The sweeper sat up on his heels expectantly. For a second she became conscious of his presence.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked coldly.
“Nothing--nothing.” The despairing man stooped to his task.
“Where is your--your accomplice?” she asked.
“She’s reading--‘How to be Happy though Married,’” he said cynically.
“What are you going to do with Dempsi?” asked Bobbie, leaning across and dropping his voice.
“I’m in despair, Bobbie. I can’t count on his losing himself again. The only thing he shows any signs of losing is his head--and I never knew him when he had one worth losing. Well?”
It was Superbus again. She wished he wouldn’t put his hand on his heart before he bowed.
“That parson gentleman’s called again,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “He’s the Vicar of Banhurst.”
Superbus was country-bred and was schooled in the values of ecclesiastical rank. The Vicar of Banhurst was a person of eminence. To Diana he was part of the marriage trap. The steel grille that would cut her off from freedom. She was panic-stricken by his very presence in the house.
“Tell him I’m ill,” she said frantically. “Tell him--I’m--I’m very ill. Ask him to come to-morrow. And please, please don’t tell Mr. Dempsi he is here.”
“He said if you’d call him up--” Superbus offered tentatively the clerical card. She waved it away.
“I don’t want his address--I don’t _want_ it!”
Mr. Superbus did his bow and went out. Her face was the picture of woe.
“Bobbie, what am I to do? That’s the third time he’s called to-day.”
“The clergyman. Dempsi’s idea! He thinks our marriage is a matter of hours! It is so like Dempsi, so absurdly, so tragically mad; but he’d hardly been with me two minutes before he told me he was sending for the parson to ‘make us one’! And I know which one! I read the review of a book to-day by a man whose name I forget. It doesn’t matter. He says that there are conditions in which assassination is the purest and noblest expression of public sentiment. Will you get it for me?”