Love Lies Dreaming (23 page)

“Oh, horrors!” I said. “And I've never said a word about not wanting you to call me ‘Cecil'”

“You're right, dear. You never have. But if I were to wait always until you
spoke
about things, I'd have to wait ages. You don't say a word. You just
look
things. Until just lately, when you've written 'em in your diary instead. I'm sorry I told you I'd read it, now. It might have been useful later on.”

“I'll never write another word in it in the future, anyway.”

“Oh, you must, dear. You must finish it, of course. You mustn't waste a whole book when you've got a wife dependent on your earnings.”

“A
book?
”

“Why, yes, dear. It's a book, of sorts.”

“It'd just about serve you right if I were to publish it.”

“I hope you will,” said Constance, demurely. “I should like to have a book published that is all about me. And, oh my dear, I nearly died when I read what you had written about that letter Pip Masters sent me. That was useful, too. Because when Kitty Fisher called and I found you'd been up to something in town
that day without telling me, I'd have been as cross as anything, except that I knew that sooner or later I'd read all about it in the diary. Aren't you a dear old stupid to get all tied up that way?”

“That settles it. I
will
publish it. You'll meet with your just deserts for once, by having the truth written about you.”

“But it's not the truth, dear,” said Constance. “It's only what you think is the truth about me. I—I wish it were the truth.”

I kissed her hands.

“That makes me feel proud,” said Constance, “just as the book did.”

And a second later Constance said:

“Don't squeeze the life out of me—not yet, dear.” Then she gurgled. “Dear,” she said, “will you put that in the book, too? I don't see why you shouldn't, and yet—If a husband can't squeeze his own wife I should like to know who can squeeze whom. The book's all about kissing me when it isn't about quarrelling with me and being jealous about me. Any one would think we never did anything else. And we do, sometimes, don't we? Yes, and I don't think any nice
woman would like to have all this described in print. But I don't mind. I suppose I'm not a nice woman,”

My contradiction of this last statement was wordless, but it took some time. After it Constance was pulling my hair and regarding me back and forth.

“What a dissipated wreck you do look with your collar half undone like that,” said she. “But I like you. I really like you. I—love you.” With her cheek to mine Constance whispered something:

“Dear, I wasn't being spiteful when I said that about not having anything to call you by all this time. And I've thought of a nice name for you, now.”

“What is that?” I asked, softly.

Constance's head drooped lower.

“Father,” she whispered.

I crushed her against me.

“But—but—you don't want to go all through that again?” I whispered.

“I don't mind, dear. I—I should like to—for you. And the first thing I asked after—after Baby John came, dear, was whether it would make any difference—later. And they said it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't happen again.”

I did not know that Constance had asked that; of course she had, though. I had asked the same, and had received the same answer.

“Dear,” said Constance to me, “I'm feeling shy.”

She wriggled herself out of my grasp, pattered across the floor, scrambled into bed, and hid herself beneath the sheets. But, struck with a better idea, she re-emerged and stretched out her arm to the bedside lamp. There was a click, and I was plunged into darkness—battling with my collar.

At breakfast Dewey suddenly exclaimed.

“Oh, confound it all! I've known some spoony couples in my time, but I've never seen a four years' married couple hold hands at
breakfast
before.”

But I was past caring about what Dewey said.

And after breakfast Constance gave Mrs. Black notice. I hardly know who was more relieved—Constance at getting rid of Mrs. Black, or Mrs. Black at being free from us. So Mrs. Rundle will be returning soon. That brings us back again to where we started.

THE END

Cecil Scott “C.S.” Forester
, born in Cairo in August 1899, was the fifth and last child of George Foster Smith and Sarah Medhurst Troughton. After finishing school at Dulwich College he attended Guy's Medical School but failed to finish the course, preferring to write than study. However, it was not until he was aged twenty-seven that he earned enough from his writing to live on
.

During the Second World War, Forester moved to the United States where he met a young British intelligence officer named Roald Dahl, whom he encouraged to write about his experiences in the RAF
.

Forester's most notable works were the Horatio Hornblower series, which depicted a Royal Navy officer during the Napoleonic era, and The African Queen (filmed in 1951 by John Huston). His novels A Ship of the Line and Flying Colours were jointly awarded the 1938 James Tait Black Memorial Prize for fiction
.

Discover books by C. S. Forester published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/CSForester
Love Lies Dreaming
Marionettes at Home
The Daughter of the Hawk
The Peacemaker

For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain
references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1927 by The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Copyright © 1927 C.S. Forrester
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eISBN: 9781448211609
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