Georgia bit her lip as she looked through the window at a herd of black-and-white cattle grazing in a field. She noticed mechanically that the wood of the farm-buildings was painted an unfamiliar shade of bright blue. A girl with a cropped head and a faultless profile waded through the mud of the yard.
There was a perceptible pause before she spoke.
"Harvey, you know what my output has been. I've taken more out of myself than I can put back. I feel I am due for a very long holiday."
The news was not unexpected to Torch. Although Georgia's store of lurid adventure had seemed an inexhaustible gold-mine, he was not blind to the fact that she had dynamited the rich vein too ruthlessly. In her drive for financial security she had rammed the work of years into a comparatively small section of the calendar.
Reminding himself that the future would probably readjust itself, he accepted the blow with philosophy.
"Yes," he agreed quietly, "I think a rest would be good for you—and for your work. Lady, this is Ghent. You remember the poem you learned in the schoolroom: 'How they brought the good news.' But I shall always connect Ghent with news which was not so good."
Apparently she did not hear him, while Ghent was ignored as a murky collection of chimneys and roofs.
"Harvey," she said suddenly, "so many people marry strangers. Girls go out to winter sports and come back engaged. You met Sybil on a cruise."
His keen face grew fatuous at the reference to his wife. She was a strong and radiant sportswoman with unsporting methods of courtship, since she had potted him while he was sitting; but he was still too deeply in love to realise that his marriage had not been altogether spontaneous.
"In the main, any marriage must be a risk," he conceded.
"Mine wasn't. I played for safety. And you know how that turned out."
It was the first time she had referred to her private life, so his curiosity was too strong for him to resist a question.
"Were you unhappy?"
"No," she replied. "When a girl is married from the schoolroom she expects so little besides a wedding-dress and presents. The importance and excitement of being a bride is enough for her."
"Did Edward make you happy?"
"Oh, yes, he was always kind. Even before he did it, he asked me to forgive him for letting me down. I did not realise that he meant he was going to leave me to provide for the children. But don't forget this. I made a safe marriage."
Torch leaned forward and patted her hand.
"You must choose some one really worth while next time," he advised.
To his dismay, she acknowledged his hint with fatal bluntness.
"You mean Osbert? I can tell you now. There was no one like him, until I met Gustav. I used to wait and wonder why he didn't ask me to marry him. But now everything is changed."
Torch tried to hide his disappointment.
"If you feel like that," he said stiffly, "there is no more to be said—except this. By his advice to you over the trust, Osbert has proved himself no fortune-hunter."
"As if he could be. But Gustav has the same chance now. If he proposed to me after he knows I've nothing, that would show he was disinterested too. Harvey, do you think he will?"
He disregarded the appeal of her eyes.
"I only know he has gone away," he reminded her.
She sighed before she noticed his depression with characteristic unselfishness.
"I am so very sorry about Osbert and everything," she said. "But can't you understand? Every woman wants real life. I've had nothing."
"I should say you had more than your share of experience."
"Births, death and marriage. That wasn't experience. I was too young to feel. Things happened to me, and I accepted them. That was all. They seemed to sweep over my head without touching me, like a high wave. Harvey, do you think he will come back?"
"My dear girl, you had better ask the booking-clerk at the station. How can I tell if he took a return ticket?"
They were silent for the rest of the short journey. When Bruges was reached Torch was sorry he had proposed the excursion, because Georgia was sunk in depression. She was in no mood to appreciate antiquity. The old and picturesque streets, all the monuments of a medieval age, the treasures of art in the churches and museums, the sleepy canals, made no appeal to her.
She noticed the slime on the cobbles, the lack of colour, the thick brown water, overhung with a cloud of winged insects. To her the place was crumbling, smelly, scummy; but she knew that the Count would have revitalised it to a brave new world had he been her companion.
She lunched principally on cigarettes and made no comment on the chimes of the famous belfry.
"What do you think of Bruges?" asked Torch presently.
"It's glorious...But is it sanitary?"
"No. Judged by that standard, Bruges stands no longer where it did. We'll catch the next train, Georgia. But first we'll just hop into Notre Dame."
"Oh, my dear," protested Georgia, "I've seen so many churches that they all look alike now."
"But you must see the Michaelangelo statue. Nothing more."
When they were inside he broke his word, for he paused before two triptych shutters by Pierre Pourbus.
"I was told a funny thing about the bloke who did these," he said. "He used to sign his canvases by painting in his own portrait as one of the minor characters. Here he is in The Adoration of the Shepherds.' He's wearing a hat."
"It sounds incredible and disgusting publicity," remarked Georgia.
"To you, perhaps, because you've got a bug about that sort of thing. But I can get under his skin. The chap said to himself, 'I've given this job all I've got. I've put myself into it. So I'm here, to prove it. I'm hanged if any blighter shall steal my thunder. My portrait proves that this is my very own picture.' Do you get the personal angle now?"
Georgia smiled as she looked at his animated face.
"How kind and understanding you always are," she said.
"But not understanding enough to know what a woman's ankles feel like after she's been tramping on high heels over cobbles? All right. You can stop looking like a lost kitten. You win. We are going straight to the station."
He paused in the porch of the church to buy a picture postcard of "The Adoration of the Shepherds."
"Keep this for your record," he said.
It was raining when they left Bruges, so that even the enthusiastic Torch had to admit that the old city looked inexpressibly sad and dreary under a pall of beaten-down smoke and drizzle. He felt sorry he had dragged Georgia on such a depressing excursion, since his aim had been to raise her spirits.
They said "Good-bye" on the steps of her hotel.
"I'm crossing tonight," he told her. "Got to be back in the office tomorrow. Any message to any one?"
"Give Osbert my love."
"He will treasure it. How long are you staying?"
"I don't know."
"Oh, Sister Ann. Sister Ann."
"Why not?" She laughed defiantly. "I don't want to miss him, in case he should come back. Besides, I might go on to Sweden."
"There is England. The Count told me he is half-English."
Georgia freed her hand and began to mount the steps slowly. Mooning like a sleepwalker through the crowded vestibule, she entered the twilight of the vast lounge.
The