I was relieved when she had gone. The whole atmosphere had been
curiously tense, and from the moment that the laboratory-boy had made
his unwelcome intrusion, I had been thoroughly uncomfortable. After
seeing her off I walked a short distance to buy an evening paper, and it
was nearly seven when I climbed up again to the top storey of the
Physics Building. The cat was asleep in front of the fire, and when,
remembering my promise, I placed a saucer of milk on the floor beside
it, one green eye slowly opened and then disdainfully closed again.
At seven he returned, after delivering his lecture on (I think) the
Mycology and Bacteriology of Foods. The first thing he noticed was the
cat and the saucer of milk. Explanations were necessary, and he accepted
them as a wise adult might listen to the charming vagaries of a child.
"How like her!" he said, but no more. And within half-an-hour the cat
was back in its cage.
I remember that night because then, for the first time since I had known
him, he permitted himself to break the iron routine of his labours.
Perhaps he felt that since the tea invitation had already interfered
with his day, he might just as well walk a further step on the long road
to perdition. Anyhow, as I was leaving London early the following
morning on some special newspaper work, I asked him if he would come
with me to a show of some sort, and, to my immense astonishment, he
agreed immediately.
We dined at a small, unfashionable place off Regent Street, and after
trying in vain at several theatres, managed to get in at the Coliseum
two or three turns late. He was very quiet at first, but the sound and
colour of the music-hall roused him completely. He laughed a good deal,
and at the simplest things. As we walked home afterwards a reaction set
in and he was quiet again; he even went so far as to say that he
disliked "gadding about" as a general rule, although it was pleasant on
rare occasions. I told him that it wasn't good for anybody to work
without any pleasure intermixed, and he retorted, with a curious
enthusiasm in his voice: "My work _is_ my pleasure. I _mean_ that. I'm
really looking forward to to-morrow--because I shall be able to work
then without any interruptions."
I suppose he remembered that I was going away, for he added hastily: "I
don't mean you, of course."
It was so glaringly obvious whom he did mean. Only once did he mention
her by name, and that was just before we separated outside his lodgings
in Swinton Street. He said then: "Do you think she was bored by all the
talk about my work?"
I assured him that I thought she had been very deeply interested, and he
replied: "I hope she was. She makes it so easy for me to tell her
things."