II

I have that letter by the side of my typewriter now, and I have copied

it word for word. It takes up three sheets of Severn's best parchment

notepaper, and each sheet has been torn across into four pieces. And

that, even if there were nothing else, would bring back to my mind the

Sunday of 'the Karelsky week-end.'

So Fleet Street called it, and with good reason. Never in all my

experience have I known such a frenzied chorus as went up from the

newspapers on that first Sunday after Easter. From the rolling periods

of Mr. Garvin down to the silliest paragraph of the silliest columnist,

the theme was just Karelsky--Karelsky--Karelsky.... It was more than

infuriating; it was sickening. I remember strolling across Lincoln's Inn

Fields in the morning sunlight and asking myself the question: What

would you think of all this if you had never met Karelsky and if you

didn't know that he was a rogue? I decided that, even so, I should have

reacted against the stupendous publicity that the fellow was getting.

Severn was right; the 'great man' stunt _had_ been overdone.

Something lured me to mention Karelsky's name to people I met. The

match-seller in Holborn told me that he hadn't read the papers and had

never heard of Karelsky. The policeman at the corner of Kingsway said:

"Seems a lot o' fuss about one man, don't it? Time enough to shout when

'e's really done something, _I_ should think." Both answers gave me such

keen pleasure that I warned myself against letting my feelings develop

into an obsession.

In the afternoon I read over all that I had written of the novel, and

then tried to resume where I had left off. But I kept thinking: June is

at Hindhead now, talking to him, telling him what has happened.... The

thought was a disturbing one. At tea-time I gave up the idea of writing

any more until I heard from her. And then, in the evening, Helen came.

We hadn't met for weeks, and the sight of her, so sudden and unexpected,

made me think, for the first time without an effort, of her age. It

wasn't that she looked old; it wasn't that she looked even her age; it

was rather that there was some curious expression in her eyes that could

never have belonged to a younger woman. She looked--it is the only

word--tragic. And she began, without preamble of any kind: "I've just

been told about Terry. Is it true?"

"About Terry and Karelsky?"

"Yes."

"It is true, I'm sorry to say." I offered her a chair, and she sat down

with a sort of sweeping dignity I have often seen on the stage, and

which, until I saw _her_ with it, always struck me as overdone.

"Geoffrey told me," she went on. "He's wild with delight. It will give

him _such_ a chance of making a show of himself."