Sparkling Cyanide by Agatha Christie

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. Mowed and mumbled. Acted like a blithering fool.
    “You know, old girl, any time - you've 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 humble 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 lasting! Rosemary would always come back to him. Once let him accept that view and all would be well.
    For she was fond of him. Her affection for him was constant and unvarying. It existed quite apart from her flirtations and her love affairs.
    He had schooled himself to accept those. He had told himself that they were inevitable with someone of Rosemary's susceptible temperament and her unusual beauty. What he had not bargained for were his own reactions.
    Flirtations with this young man and that were nothing, but when he first got an inkling of a serious affair -
    He'd known quick enough, sensed the difference in her. The rising excitement, the added beauty, the whole glowing radiance. And then what his instinct told him was confirmed by ugly concrete facts.
    There was that day when he'd come into her sitting-room and she had instinctively covered with her hand the page of the letter she was writing. He'd known then. She was writing to her lover.
    Presently, when she went out of the room, he went across to the blotter. She had taken the letter with her, but the blotting sheet was nearly fresh. He'd taken it across the room and held it up to the glass - seen the words in Rosemary's dashing script, “My own beloved darling...”
    His blood had sung in his ears. He understood in that moment just what Othello had felt. Wise resolutions? Pah! Only the natural man counted. He'd like to choke the life out of her! He'd like to murder the fellow in cold blood. Who was it? That fellow Browne? Or that stick Stephen Farraday? They'd both of them been making sheep's eyes at her.
    He caught sight of his face in the glass. His eyes were suffused with blood. He looked as though he were going to have a fit.
    As he remembered that moment, George Barton let his glass fall from his hand. Once again he felt the choking sensation, the beating blood in his ears. Even now - With an effort he pushed remembrance away. Mustn't go over that again. It was past - done with. He wouldn't ever suffer like that again. Rosemary was dead. And at peace. And he was at peace too. No more suffering...
    Funny to think that that was what her death had meant to him. Peace...
    He'd never told even Ruth that. Good girl,