IV

There was certainly no excuse for any guest being uncomfortable at the

End House. Of all places I know it was the homeliest; it was, like

Hampstead itself, cheerful without vulgarity. Severn's immense wealth

(and he was rumoured to be making twenty thousand a year) never bullied

or forced itself; it rather hid behind things and came upon the visitor

at some moment when he was ready for it. Most wealthy houses make a poor

man feel poorer than ever; Severn's made you feel rich.

At the last moment I was ill and couldn't turn up on that following

Friday. But from two sources I heard what had taken place. First

from Terrington himself, who said merely: "I enjoyed it, and I like

Severn ... and also Mrs. Severn."

Mrs. Severn, a few days later, gave me a somewhat lengthier report. "He

was quiet," she said, "and he spoke very little, but he didn't look

quite so awfully miserable as before. After dinner we even got him to

sing--he's got rather a good baritone voice, but he only knew songs like

'Annie Laurie' and 'Auld Lang Syne'.... And then he played with

June--_she_ liked him. As a matter of fact, we _all_ liked him--there

seems to be something about him you can't help liking--don't you think

so?"

I agreed, and she added, as if it finally clinched the matter: "Have you

noticed his eyes? They are rather nice."

It was then that I first of all learned that he was at work on cancer

research. Mrs. Severn had been told so by her husband, and he had

learned it from one of the senior men at the College; it was typical,

indeed, of my entire relationship with Terrington that I acquired this

rather important information by such a roundabout route. But when I

tackled him on the subject he would do no more than confirm; he wouldn't

discuss. He said, smiling: "You're a journalist and everything seems

sensational to you. But there's nothing sensational in the work I'm

doing.... You and Severn seem bent on making a howling success of me,

but I don't want it. I just want to be left alone--to do my own work."

He added, in a tone that robbed his words of any sting: "Please don't

think I mean anything unkind."

But his summing-up of Severn's intention had been true enough. Severn

always wanted to make a howling success of everybody. I suppose, at

rock-bottom, it was a form of conceit--an assumption that everybody's

ideal must be his own. And yet there was nothing blatant or vulgar in

him. His taste was impeccable to the point of being finicky, and he had

charming manners. He never in his life bullied either judge or witness,

but his suavity was deadly enough; with calm, almost friendly questions,

he would lead a man to confess murder or a woman adultery. In private

life he was courteous to all; in fact (as somebody once said) he always

talked to you as if his life had been incomplete until he met you. It

was an oriental gift, and twenty thousand a year was no more than the

figure of its rarity.

I owed him then, and owe him still, more than he would ever care for me

to say. He enjoyed pulling strings on behalf of his protégés; he

pulled the strings for Terrington, though the latter was too innocent to

realize it. Severn talked about him to various editors of scientific

journals, and the result was a few commissions. He even persuaded the

editor of a "daily" to start a popular science "feature," and that

Terrington's contributions to this were moderately successful was due to

the fact that _I_ wrote them. _He_ could never have achieved the popular

vein, but his science and my journalism made a profitable amalgam. We

shared the income, devoting it to more ambitious Sunday rambles, until

at last he decided that the job was taking up too much of his time. He

was like that--a sudden swerve to right or left, and then an inexorable

straight line.

All that time I was getting to know him, and all that time I was liking

him more.

V

One afternoon of that late winter he came to my rooms and asked me if I

thought he ought to return the invitations of the Severns. I told him

that they knew he wasn't well off, and that they certainly wouldn't

expect to be invited to dinner at an expensive hotel or anything like

that. He answered that he hadn't been thinking of dinner, but of tea.

"But I thought tea was always impossible for you?"

"Not if I--if I managed it."

"I see.... Well, I think you'd better manage it. It's a good idea."

"Do you really think so?" He seemed pleased. "As a matter of fact, I met

Mrs. Severn in the street just now, and I hinted at it--vaguely."

"Well? Did she accept?"

"Yes. She's coming--next Thursday. And Severn as well."

So it was all settled, and I was merely being asked to register

approval. I duly registered, and was then rewarded by an invitation

myself. "I'll be delighted to come," I assured him. "But where are you

going to have them? You can't very well----"

I paused, hardly caring to stress the unsuitability of

bed-sitting-rooms. He saw, however, that Swinton Street would not do. He

could have used my own room, but it was not very much better than his;

and to take them to some hotel or café would seem rather odd. In the end

we decided on the laboratory. "It's a large room," I said, "and it's

private, more or less, and there's water laid on, and a gas-ring, and

other handy things. Besides, they'll forgive any amount of mess there."

It was fun making preparations for them. We borrowed armchairs from the

lecture-platforms, and I carefully selected all my best crockery and

transferred it to the top of the Physics building in a suitcase. We

cleaned the windows and the lamp-shade, and made the place as habitable

as possible. Then we bought the food. Last of all, from half-past three

till nearly half-past four on a glowering March afternoon, we waited. He

stood by the window keeping an eye on the porter's lodge, while I sat by

the fire and tried to think of any possible hitch in the arrangements.

Suddenly he said: "They're here!" and went downstairs to meet them and

show them the way. But when he came back there was only Mrs. Severn with

him. She was profusely apologetic. She was sorry she was so late, and

she was sorry Geoffrey wasn't with her (he hadn't been able to get away

from the Law Courts in time), and she was especially sorry about the

toasted scones. "You men oughtn't to have waited for me," she said, as

she allowed me to remove her fur coat. Then she looked appraisingly

round the room, as any woman will, and made remarks about it. "What a

jolly little place! How comfortable you must be here--so high up among

the roofs! And all those wonderful-looking instruments--really, you

_must_ tell me about them."

And the extraordinary thing was that he did. He went round the room with

her, exhibiting and explaining, answering in full and patient detail

even the silliest of her questions, and all without the slightest sign

of either nervousness or reticence. It looked like a miracle. I had been

struggling for weeks to overcome the mere outposts of his reserve, and

here was a woman who had only seen him for a few hours striding miles

beyond me into the unknown territory.

But of course she was no ordinary woman. She was astoundingly pretty,

and I suppose that a good many of her most fervent admirers would spend

hours in describing her copper-gold hair and her brown eyes with their

curious, slanting glint of green; but for me there was always something

beyond that. There was a way she sometimes looked, especially if you saw

her face in profile against the sky or window--a way that was beyond

prettiness. I'm not certain it wasn't beyond even beauty. It challenged,

and yet, by some marvellous paradox, it was serene as well.

We had tea. I listened to their talk and said very little myself. It was

pleasant to sit back in a chair and, without any effort at all, to add

large fragments to my scanty collection of facts about Terrington. She

asked him most of the questions I had always wanted to ask him, and he

answered them all. He told her, for instance, that his father had been a

country parson, and that his mother had died at his birth. He told her

also that the total amount he earned was two hundred pounds a year, and

that he lived on it. She was astonished. "But of course you will earn a

lot of money some day," she said, with vague comfort; and he answered:

"I don't want to make a lot of money. I admit that two hundred isn't

enough, but I don't want a lot. If I could get two hundred and fifty or

three hundred I'd be perfectly satisfied and never want any more."

"You couldn't marry on that," she said.