Mr. Zero Read Free Page A

you tried to talk to Sylvia—you slipped, and slid, and didn’t get anywhere at all. Gay made a determined attempt to get back to Francis.
    â€œWe weren’t really talking about how old anyone was. I don’t care whether Francis is fourteen, or forty, or four hundred. I want to know what he’s like to live with. Is he fond of you—is he nice to you—are you fond of him?”
    Sylvia smiled a little consciously.
    â€œOh, well, he’s in love with me.”
    â€œPeople aren’t always nice to you when they’re in love with you.” Gay was remembering Julian Carr who had made such a frightful scene when she said she wouldn’t marry him. “And they’re not always fond of you either.” And she didn’t know how she knew that, but she did know it.
    â€œIt’s the same thing,” said Sylvia in a puzzled voice.
    â€œYou’re very lucky if it is,” said Gay with a wisdom beyond her years. “But if it really is the same thing with Francis, then you haven’t got to bother at all, because you can just go straight home and tell him, and he can deal with the blue pencil—stamp on it, or push its face in. Anyhow you won’t have to bother any more.”
    Sylvia looked lovely and mournful. She shook her head.
    â€œIt wouldn’t do at all, darling.”
    â€œWhy wouldn’t it?”
    â€œOh, it wouldn’t . You don’t know Francis.”
    Gay blew up.
    â€œIs that my fault? I keep asking you what he’s like, and you’re about as much use as a jelly that hasn’t jelled! Why wouldn’t it do to tell Francis?”
    Sylvia appeared to reflect. The unusual effort brought a tiny line to her white brow.
    â€œHe’d be angry,” she said at last.
    â€œThat won’t hurt you,” said Gay. “You’d much better tell him.”
    Sylvia shook her head again.
    â€œI can’t.”
    â€œI’ll do it for you if you like,” said Gay handsomely. “I could do it most awfully well, because I could begin by telling him that you were the world’s prize fool and couldn’t help getting into some mess or other. And then I could tell him about this particular mess—and of course he’d see that it was up to him to get you out of it.”
    Sylvia stood up, and stood trembling. It was as if she had begun to run away and then lost heart, or strength, or nerve—perhaps all three. She said with twitching lips,
    â€œDon’t tell him! Don’t—don’t— don’t!”
    Gay came over to her and put her back in her chair.
    â€œSit down,” she said, “and don’t be an ass. To begin with, I don’t know anything to tell, and to go on with—”
    Sylvia clutched at her wrist.
    â€œYou mustn’t tell Francis! If I could tell him, I wouldn’t have come to you. Promise me you won’t ever tell.”
    â€œI won’t promise,” said Gay soberly, “but I won’t tell.” She removed her wrist and stood back again. “The question is, are you going to tell me? Because if you’re not, I’ll be getting along.”
    The faint, lovely colour returned to Sylvia’s cheek. She drew a long breath and sat back.
    â€œOh, darling, don’t go! I want to tell you.”
    â€œThen get on with it,” said Gay.
    Sylvia looked up, and down again.
    â€œIt’s so difficult. You see, one of the reasons I can’t tell Francis is that he said I was never, never, never to play cards for money. They play a lot, you know, in his set, and the points are dreadfully high, and he said I wasn’t to ever, because—well, it was after he’d been my partner one night at contract and we lost eight hundred pounds, and he said he wasn’t a millionaire, and even if he was he couldn’t bear the strain, and a lot of things like that.”
    Gay felt some sympathy for Francis Colesborough. She had played