How often she had slipped into his motor after him, sliding along the
shiny leather, nestling happily against him, explaining that there was
no draught, that the rain was not coming in, that her feet were as warm
as toast. How often he had steered slowly with one hand, while her
fingers crept into the palm of the other. And then he had turned off the
engine and they had sat there together silent and alone, cut off from
the world. How she had loved his motor! Surreptitiously she would caress
it with her hand, stroking the cool shiny leather, and seeing him
looking at her, she would say, "I think my purse must have fallen behind
the seat." It had become to her a child and a mother, a refuge and an
adventure, an island cut off from all the wretched necessities of
existence, associated only with her and with him. It was a much better
kingdom than a room; for a room is full of paraphernalia and
impedimenta, with books and photographs, and the envelopes of letters to
remind you of people and things that you want to forget. After all she
could not sweep her house clear of her life, empty it of the necessary
and the superfluous of her ties and her duties and her responsibilities.
But his motor--his little gasping uncomfortable motor--that was really
and truly hers, because it was his. Here was her throne and his altar.
No wonder she sometimes stroked it a little, when it was too dark for
him to ask her what she was doing.
And now, now some one else crept in after him, slid towards him on the
shiny leather, murmured that her feet were as warm as toast, that there
was no draught, and of course the rain didn't come in....
Or did she say, "Do you think there is something the matter with your
motor to-day? It seems a little asthmatic?"
Eve looked at the house. She could see brightness shining behind the
curtains. She could imagine a glowing fire and a faint smell of warm
roses. Who was the woman? What were they doing? Sitting on either side
of the fireplace drowsily intimate, smiling a little perhaps and hardly
talking, conscious only of the cold outside and the warm room and one
another....
Eve shivered. Almost unconsciously she fingered the mud guard. "A room
is a horrible unprivate thing," she said. "People walk in and out of it,
any one, and there are books and photographs and letters. It is a
market place, not a sanctuary,--whereas you...." She looked at the
little motor. It was too dark to see anything, but every line of it was
branded on her heart.
"No one will ever love you as I did," she said to it and slowly,
wearily, dragging one foot after another, she walked away into the cold
raw night.
* * * * *
"Nothing in the world like winter air to make you feel fit," Bob said to
himself as he swung himself along the road at a tremendous pace.
"Jove, what a sunset!" he added, looking up at the red gold ruffles
slowly untightening. He reflected that there is nothing in the world
like health. Live cleanly and the high thinking will look after
itself--or at least won't matter. Physical condition, there's nothing
like it. Love and that sort of thing all very well in its way, but a
cold bath in the morning and plenty of exercise.... He began to whistle,
and then--because he did feel most frightfully well--to run.
"Run a mile without being out of breath," he thought complacently, and
then--because he hadn't meant to--("wasn't even thinking of her," he
grumbled to Providence)--he found himself outside her door. And in the
road there was a motor, a little coral coloured motor. He looked at it
in dismay and then he looked at the house. He saw it was lit up and he
imagined the room he knew so well. The crimson damask curtains and the
creamy walls, the glowing fire and the red roses, the roses he had sent
for her. Probably she would be sitting on that white fur rug on the
floor, her arms clasped round her knees, her red hair as bright as the
red hot coals, her dark eyes dreamy and half closed.
"Damn him, I wonder who he is," and he started examining the motor.
"It's not very new," he thought, "the varnish is all off and those shiny
leather seats are damned cold and slippery, draughty too, I should say;
hood doesn't close properly. Must let in the rain like a leaking boat."
He put his hand on the mud guard. "Bent," he said. He felt a little
cheered. But then, looking at the glowing house, he grew disconsolate
again.
"Wonder what they're doing," he grumbled to himself. "Jabbering away,
I'll be bound. Never was much of a hand at talking myself. Wonder who
the deuce he is."
And then he looked contemptuously at the little motor.
"Damned if I couldn't do her better than that," he said. "God, how cold
it is."
Irresolutely he moved away. Then he began to run, but the raw air
caught his throat and he felt out of breath.
"Not as young as I was," he thought as he walked away into the damp
night.