THE CONFIDANTE
Veronica hesitated for a moment in the centre of the room, then groped out her hands towards Penelope, as though she could see little in this sudden gloom.
"Tell me," she cried, without preliminaries, "you, you heard from Victor?"
Penelope, who had risen, glanced across at Maurice. He took his cue.
"Veronica!" he quavered huskily.
Veronica's shoulders twitched. She turned on him in the dusk like a wild thing, with an expression that was almost baleful.
"You!" she said.
"Er—yes," admitted Maurice. "I'd simply no idea that I should . . . I just came in. By chance, you know."
"It's just as well, isn't it?" interposed Penelope. "We've—you've simply got to talk things out, Veronica; tell him. Show him Victor's letter." She moved towards the door.
"Don't go!" shrieked Veronica. "You've got to explain to him. I can't," she said, with the finality of helplessness.
The rain had stopped, and through a sudden break in the clouds the watery
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