Nearly every cab was
overloaded. The sight of this vast pathetic effort of the disinherited
towards gaiety and distraction and the mood of spring, intensified the
vague sadness in George due to the race-crowd, Lois's silence, and the
lack of news about the competition.
At length Lois said, scowling--no doubt involuntarily:
"I think I'd better tell you now. Irene Wheeler's committed suicide.
Shot herself." She pressed her lips together and looked at the road.
George gave a startled exclamation. He could not for an instant credit
the astounding news.
"But how do you know? Who told you?"
"The man who spoke to me in the grand stand. He's correspondent of _The
London Courier_--friend of father's of course."
George protested:
"Then why on earth didn't you tell me before?... Shot herself! What
for?"
"I didn't tell you before because I couldn't."
All the violence of George's nature came to the surface as he said
brutally:
"Of course you could!"
"I tell you I couldn't!" she cried. "I knew the car wouldn't be there
for us until after the Prix du Cadran. And if I'd told you I couldn't
have borne to be walking about that place three-quarters of an hour. We
should have had to talk about it. I couldn't have borne that. And so you
needn't be cross, please."
But her voice did not break, nor her eyes shine.
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