Six
GEORGE BARTON
Rosemary. . . .
George Barton lowered his glass and stared rather owlishly into the fire.
He had drunk just enough to feel maudlin¹ with self-pity.
What a lovely girl she had been. He’d always been crazy about her. She
knew it, but he’d always supposed she’d only laugh at him.
Even when he first asked her to marry him, he hadn’t done it with any
conviction.
Mowed² and mumbled³. Acted like a blithering fool.
“You know, old girl, anytime — you’ve only got to say. I know it’s no
good. You wouldn’t look at me. I’ve always been the most awful fool. Got a
bit of a corporation, too. But you do know what I feel, don’t you, eh? I
mean — I’m always there. Know I haven’t got an earthly chance, but
thought I’d just mention it.”
And Rosemary had laughed and kissed the top of his head.
“You’re sweet, George, and I’ll remember the kind offer, but I’m not
marrying anyone just at present.”
And he had said seriously: “Quite right. Take plenty of time to look
around. You can take your pick.”
He’d never had any hope—not any real hope.
That’s why he had been so incredulous, so dazed when Rosemary had
said she was going to marry him.
She wasn’t in love with him, of course. He knew that quite well. In fact,
she admitted as much.
“You do understand, don’t you? I want to feel settled down and happy
and safe. I shall with you. I’m so sick of being in love. It always goes wrong
somehow and ends in a mess. I like you, George. You’re nice and funny
and sweet and you think I’m wonderful. That’s what I want.”
He had answered rather incoherently:
“Steady does it. We’ll be as happy as kings.”
Well, that hadn’t been far wrong. They had been happy. He’d always felt
humble⁴ in his own mind. He’d always told himself that there were bound
to be snags. Rosemary wasn’t going to be satisfied with a dull kind of chap
like himself. There would be incidents! He’d schooled himself to accept—
incidents! He would hold firm to the belief that they wouldn’t be

分享到：