Sunshine Yellow by Mary Whistler Page B

going to lead the part of a normal wife”—did she lay a slight emphasis on the word “normal”? Penny wondered afterwards— “and get to know a circle of acquaintances who will prevent time hanging heavily on her hands, as it must sometimes do in such a lonely spot as this, then the sooner she begins to act the part in her own home the better. And at Old Timbers Veronica and I will be able to visit you fairly often,” she concluded, as if that was important not only for the sake of her own satisfaction, but the benefit of the two she was discussing.
    “I’m sorry you feel that Penny is leading rather a dull life at the present time,” Stephen remarked dryly.
    Mrs. Wilmott shook a waggish finger at him—apparently forgetting that he couldn’t see it—and denied anything of the kind.
    “Now, now, I didn’t say that! She is a young married woman—a bride of only a few months—and of course she isn’t dull. But I feel that life is just a little restricted for her down here in Cornwall.”
    Veronica gazed curiously across the table at Penny. “You don’t look like a bride, Penny,” she told her. “You look exactly as you used to look!”
    After lunch, as the sun was warm, and the sea was the heavenly blue it so often is in Cornwall when the autumn days are growing shorter and shorter, they all went for a short stroll on the cliff-top, and Veronica insisted on taking Stephen’s arm and cautioning him against any uneven surfaces in the path. The two of them fell a little behind the other pair, and in the golden light of the westering sun they seemed to have quite a lot to say to one another. Whenever Penny looked backwards over her shoulder—which she did frequently, because she was in a constant state of alert over Stephen, and their nearness to the cliff edge sent her heart into her mouth every time Veronica hung back still more and indicated some thing out at sea—they seemed to be chatting both happily and contentedly, and it was plain that Stephen no longer blamed Veronica for failing to become his wife after all.
    When they turned back to the cottage Veronica was sighing, and saying how much she had enjoyed the afternoon, and every time her eyes rested on the blind man their violet depths grew tender in a way Penny had never seen them before.
    She began to feel not so much vaguely, as suddenly keenly, afraid.
    The visitors did not remain for tea, but when she went upstairs to collect her hat and coat Veronica was talking musingly of driving to see them again within a matter of days.
    “Of course, we could put up at the inn for a few days, if you’ve got an inn?” she said to Penny. “It may be a bit crude, but now that we’re in your area I feel that we ought to see rather more of you than is possible in a few hours.”
    But although she smiled at Penny it was not the smile she bestowed on Stephen when she wished him a soft “ Au revoir , Stephen!”
    He took her fingers and held them for exactly the length of time he would have held anyone else’s, but watching them Penny experienced a nasty pang. An uneasy pang. For she thought there was a note of gratitude in her husband’s voice when he said:
    “It was good of you to come!”
    Veronica’s voice was husky as she replied:
    “I had to come! ... and I’m coming again!”
    When the blue car had driven away from the white front of the cottage Penny went upstairs to her bedroom, and she thought that it smelled overpoweringly of the perfume Veronica used. Her comb, that Veronica had borrowed, had some fine silky black hairs clinging to it—Veronica’s hair had the downy darkness of a blackbird’s plumage—and she had left her gold lipstick behind on the dressing-table.
    Penny picked it up, and stood holding it as if it might bite her. She was recalling Veronica’s alert eyes roving round the room, and remembering the apparently surprised note in her voice when she exclaimed:
    “But this is a single room! Don’t you and Stephen share a