I
THE heat of that night is a sort of canvas on which everything is
painted in my memory. Terry, when he came to the door and admitted me,
was rather pale, and something in his eyes made me wonder if he were
sorry I had come. Probably, if I hadn't been fairly drunk, I should soon
have left him; but I was in a talkative, comradely mood, and hints were
lost on me. He must have been very patient and forbearing.
We made coffee, I remember, and I smoked cigarettes and chattered about
the party and Severn and Karelsky and so on. Perhaps he listened, but I
think (and rather hope) that he didn't. He told me that the heat had
"got at him," but that after a cold bath he felt much better. All the
time we talked the thunder rolled and rumbled over the roofs, and the
numerous cracks in the window-blind sparkled with vivid lightning. In
the green-yellow gas-light the bed-sitting-room looked dingier and more
forlorn than ever. Heaped up in one corner were books and papers that he
had begun to sort out in readiness for removal, and about half-past
midnight, wanting an excuse to stay longer, I said: "It's not a bit of
good either of us trying to sleep on a night like this. We might just as
well get to work and finish packing your things. I hear you're going
to-morrow night...."
Then came the shock that made me suddenly sober. He answered
quietly--almost casually: "No, no ... I'm _not_ going."
"Not--not going--to-morrow?"