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16

II

Harold Waring, like many other Englishmen, was a bad
linguist. Up to now, this had not worried him. In most hotels on the
Continent, he had always found everyone spoke English, so why
worry?
But in this out-of-the-way place where the native language was
a form of Slovak and even servants spoke only German it was
difficult for Harold to understand them. So he was grateful to Mrs.
Rice and Elsie when they acted as interpreters for him.
The morning was fine and after writing some letters, Harold
looked at his watch and saw there was still time for an hour's stroll
before lunch. He went down towards the lake and then turned into the
pinewoods. He had walked there for perhaps five minutes when he
heard an unmistakable sound. Somewhere not far away some woman
was sobbing. Harold went in the direction of the sound. The woman
was Elsie Clayton, and she was sitting on a fallen tree with her face
buried in her hands and her shoulders quivering with the violence of
her grief.
Harold hesitated a minute, then he came up to her. He said
gently:
"Mrs. Clayton-Elsie?"
She started and looked up at him. He sat down beside her. He
said with real sympathy:
"Is there anything I can do?"
She shook her head.
"No - no - you're very kind. But there's nothing that anyone can
do for me..."
"Is it because of your husband?"
She nodded and said in a trembling voice:
"I didn't want Mother to worry. She's upset when she sees me
unhappy."
Harold said: "I'm terribly sorry."
She threw him a grateful glance. Then she said hurriedly:
"He terrifies me – absolutely terrifies – when he gets in one of
his rages. You see, part of the trouble is that he's insanely jealous. If -
if I just speak to another man he makes the most frightful scenes."
Harold's indignation rose. He had heard many women
complaining of the jealousy of a husband, and secretly justified the
husband. But Elsie Clayton was not one of these women.