Читать книгу Wintersmoon онлайн

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"Tom is in love with Rosalind."

"I know," Janet said.

"We won't talk about it now. You have this other thing to think about. But sometime?..."

Then, with a little sigh, she added, "He's terribly in love, poor boy."

They talked for a little while about anything, nothing. Then, clinging together as though to assert against all the world and anything that it might do their mutual love, they parted.

The time passed swiftly. The little silver clock on the mantelpiece struck half-past twelve with so menacing a suddenness that Janet sprang from her writing-desk and stood waiting as though some voice had called her.

A moment later Wildherne Poole was in the room. He came straight to her and kissed her, not as though it were some duty that he must perform, but like a friend, someone who had known her all her life and cared for her dearly. That action seemed at once to establish their relation happily. She laughed, let her hand rest for a moment on the dark rough stuff of his coat, and said:

"Give me a moment. I'll have my things on and be back in no time. How punctual you are!"