“I’ll keep it for you,” I said. “Damn you.”
“Yes, you keep it for me,” said Gerald thoughtfully. “Nice, fivers are
...” and then, savagely muttering “Oh, hell!” he strode abruptly away
down the slope of East Chapel Street, which leads into Shepherd’s
Market. Drunk or sober, you simply couldn’t tell. You never knew that
man was drunk until he was speechless. I was hurrying away when his
voice held me--and a very boyish voice Gerald had, like a prefect’s at
school.
“I say, seen that sister of mine again?... You haven’t?” He seemed to
reflect profoundly. “I say, if ever you do, give her my love. What? I
say, don’t forget....”
“I won’t forget,” I called back. “Good-night, Gerald.” But he had turned
away, and the last I saw of him he was putting his shoulder against the
saloon-door of The Leather Butler. I plunged across the road to
Chesterfield Street, glad of the message I would certainly give to
Gerald’s sister. Maybe to-night, somehow. A furious conference of livid
pink and purple monsters hung over Seamore Place, where the sun was
sinking into Kensington Gardens.