When he awoke next morning, he knew at once that he was in possession
of an exquisite secret and was quite different from the Turgis who had
rubbed his eyes so often in that little room. He was the chap who had
been kissed by Miss Lena Golspie the night before. He was also the chap
she was going to telephone to this very day and take to the Colladium
this very night. He jumped out of bed and then jumped into the part of
this new and splendid chap. The fact that he still looked like the old
Turgis, to whom nothing wonderful had ever happened, only made it all
the more amusing.
“Another raw morning, my word,” said Mrs. Pelumpton, as she handed
him his breakfast. “Them’s best off this morning who has to stay in.
Edgar’s been gone these two hours, and a nasty cold job it must be in
that station this morning.”
“Yes, it must, Mrs. Pelumpton,” said Turgis heartily. “I’m sorry for
Edgar.” And so he was. Edgar would never be kissed by a girl like Lena
Golspie, not if he lived to be a thousand. Poor dreary devil!
Old Pelumpton shuffled in, unwashed, blue about the nose, and wearing
a greasy muffler. Turgis had seen him like that many times before,
but this morning he resented the appearance of this dirty apparition.
If Lena Golspie knew that he had to eat his breakfast looking at that
nasty old mess, who might have just crawled out of the dustbin, she
would probably never speak to him again.
“No letter, I shee,” said Mr. Pelumpton, going to the fire and warming
his hands. “That meansh he doeshn’t want me to go and shee the shtuff
thish morning. I’ll go round jusht before dinner and catch ’im in then.
That’sh the idear.”
“Yes, that is the idea,” said his wife sharply, as she bustled about.
“Wait till the pubs is open and then catch him in. I know that idea.
It’s a good idea, that is. If it wasn’t for that idea, I don’t know
why the pubs ’ud ever open at dinner time, ’cos they wouldn’t have any
custom.”
“You hear that,” Mr. Pelumpton said to Turgis, who was putting away
his breakfast as fast as he could. “Deary me, they’ve got pubsh on the
brain, the women ’ave. If a man shtops in a bit, they want to know when
he’sh going to do a bit o’ work, an’ if he goesh out, then it’sh the
pubsh.”
“And you don’t go in the pubs, do you, Mr. Pelumpton?” said Turgis,
with a very marked ironical inflection.
“Oh no! He ’ates them, he does,” cried Mrs. Pelumpton. “You couldn’t
get him to go near one.”
“What shome o’ you people don’t realishe,” retorted Mr. Pelumpton with
dignity, “ish that the pub may be nesheshary in bishnish. And until
you’ve been in bishnish--a bishnish like mine, I mean--it’sh shomething
you don’t undershtand. The amount of bishnish transhacted in pubsh, my
wordsh----”
“’Morning, Mrs. Pelumpton,” cried Turgis, wiping his mouth and dashing
out. What a life the Pelumptons had! It seemed incredible that anybody
could find so dingy an existence worth living. Hurrying down to the
Camden Town Tube Station, cramming himself into the lift, waiting for a
City train, swaying near the doors among a mass of elbows, newspapers
and parcels all the way to Moorgate, he hugged his grand secret. When
he arrived at the office, he swelled exultantly, for this was where Mr.
Golspie gave his orders, and they all knew Mr. Golspie and they had
heard about his daughter, but they did not know what Turgis knew. It
was a delightful feeling. He wanted to laugh out loud every time one of
the others spoke to him or even looked at him. Ah, little did they know!
“You got that receipt all right, did you, Turgis?” said Mr. Smeeth.
It was extraordinary. He had forgotten all about the money and the
receipt. But he had the receipt in his pocket, nevertheless, and when
he handed it over he found himself swelling again inside, nearly
bursting with secret knowledge and happiness.
“Did you go inside?” said Mr. Smeeth casually.
“Yes,” replied Turgis. Did he go inside!
“Oo, did you?” cried Poppy Sellers, who missed nothing. “Tell us what
it was like? What did you say to his daughter? Is she nice? Tell us all
about it--go on.”
Not a bad kid, really, though that fringe effect was a distinct mess.
And she thought him--what was it?--rather marvellous. (And so _she_
ought. Why, if Lena Golspie--oh, well, I-mean-to-say!) Poor kid--a bit
pathetic, when you came to consider it. And she had wanted him to go
with her to the Police Minstrels last night! And he had half thought of
going! Dear, dear, dear!
“Well, Miss Sellers, if you really want to know,” he said, “I’ll tell
you.”
“My words, aren’t we getting grand!” cried Poppy. “Go on. Very good of
your lordship, I’m sure.”
“They live in the top half of a detached house,” said Turgis, “and the
room I went into was a large room, bigger than this office here, and it
had all sorts of things in it, and shaded lights and a big gramophone
and dozens of cushions all over the room----”
“Did it look like a furnished flat?” asked Miss Matfield.
“I suppose so. I don’t know. I don’t know anything about furnished
flats.”
“Well, what about his daughter?” Miss Sellers enquired. “What’s she
like?”
“I’ve seen her--for a minute,” said Miss Matfield. “She’s rather
pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is,” replied Turgis, keeping a hold on himself. He was
bubbling inside.
“Yes, but what’s she _like_?” Miss Sellers persisted, staring at him.
And when he made no reply, but turned away and pretended to be suddenly
busy with some work, she gave him a curious look before she herself
turned away too. He never saw it, and if he had seen it, he would not
have been interested.
Fortunately, both for him and for Twigg & Dersingham, he was not
very busy that afternoon. Otherwise, he might have muddled every
consignment of veneers and inlays, and so confused the whole trade
that it might not have recovered for a fortnight. The disadvantage of
pinning your whole afternoon on a possible telephone call in an office
is that the telephone is ringing every few minutes and you are for ever
on the jump. Up to three-thirty, Turgis was comparatively calm; from
three-thirty to four, he was on the tiptoe of expectation; from four
to four-fifteen he was desperate; from four-fifteen to four-thirty
he was swaying on the brink of a vast abyss of misery, only to be
plucked back by every ring of the bell and then hurled forward again
by each unwelcome voice (“And if you ask me,” said the girl at Brown &
Gorstein’s, after making one of these calls, “I think it’s time Twigg
and Dersinghams just veneered a few manners on. The way they snap your
head off!”); and, at four-thirty-five he was sitting staring at a desk
in hell, all hope gone, and at four-forty-five he was breathing heavily
down a telephone receiver in heaven. Yes, she had got the tickets
and would he meet her just inside the entrance to the Colladium at
twenty-five past six.
Even now, there was no peace for him. The instant he had put down the
receiver he had realized that it would not be easy for him to be at
the Colladium at twenty-five past six. Sometimes they did not finish
until nearly that time, and indeed, on really busy nights, it was often
considerably later. He had to get from Angel Pavement to the Colladium,
and if possible he had to have some tea.
“What time do you think we’ll be finishing to-night, Mr. Smeeth?” he
enquired respectfully.
Mr. Smeeth looked up from his neat little wonderland of figures. “Oh, I
dunno, Turgis. Just after six, I suppose. Why, have you got something
special on?”
“I’ve got to be up in the West End at twenty-five past six,” said
Turgis. (“And if you knew who I’m going to meet, Smeethy, old man,
you’d have a fit.”) Then he thought for a moment. “Would you mind if I
sent Stanley out for some tea for me, Mr. Smeeth?”
“Well, as long as you do it now, before he’s busy copying the letters,
it’ll be all right.”
So Stanley was dispatched to the Pavement Dining Rooms for one pot of
tea, one buttered teacake, and a bun--total eightpence. “And do I keep
the change?” asked Stanley, who had been given a shilling.
“I should think you don’t, my lad!” cried Turgis, whose finances were
now in a desperate state. The pictures last night had left him with
three and threepence; the bus going home had cost him twopence; lunch
had been ninepence (it cost him nothing travelling to the office
because he had a pass on the Underground); and now, after paying out
this eightpence, he would be left with one and eight. On that one
and eight, he would have to travel to the Colladium and get home
afterwards, and then exist all the next day, Friday. And he had only
two cigarettes left. If Lena wanted anything in the Colladium--and he
could imagine her asking for chocolates and cigarettes and ices--he was
in a hole.
He got away at five minutes past six, after having a very thorough
wash-and-brush-up in the little office lavatory, hurled himself into
the flood of west-bound travellers, and arrived, breathless and
triumphant, under the red glare of the Colladium entrance exactly on
time. He had ten minutes in which to cool off before Miss Golspie
appeared, wearing a handsome coat with a huge fur collar and cuffs and
looking so rich and beautiful that he was almost too shy to talk to
her. Their seats were down at the front--Turgis had never sat in such
seats before--and it would all have been perfect if it had not been
for two little incidents. The first occurred when Lena, during the
second turn, a silent juggling affair, announced that she would like
some chocolates. “Can you get hold of that girl there,” she said. “She
always has some nice boxes.”
Nice boxes! “How much are they?” he asked her, miserably.
“Well, you are a mean pig! How much are they? I like that, and after
I’ve paid for the seats, too!”
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, “but--you see--I’ve only got one and
sixpence.” He had paid tuppence on the bus, getting there.
“One and six!” Lena laughed. It was not an unfriendly laugh, but it was
not a very sympathetic one either. “That’s worse than I was, before you
brought that money, yesterday. It doesn’t matter, though. I don’t know
that I do want any chocolates. But would you spend your wonderful one
and six if I asked you to?”
“Yes, I would. Of course I would. If I’d,” he added, as the curtains
swept down on the smiling jugglers, “if I’d hundreds and hundreds of
pounds, I’d spend them all if you asked me to. I would, honestly.”
“Oh, it’s easy to say that,” said Lena, not displeased, however, at his
fervent tone. She gave him a brilliant glance, and no doubt remarked
that his face was flushed and his eyes were at once hot and moist, as
if he stared through a steam of embarrassed adoration.
Unfortunately, not all her brilliant glances were reserved for him, and
that fact formed the basis of the second disturbing incident. There
was a young man, a rather tall handsome chap with wavy hair, who was
sitting with a girl in the row in front of them and a little to their
right. Turgis had noticed that this fellow was turning round a good
deal whenever the lights went up and that every time he did so his
glance always came to rest finally on Lena. After this had happened
several times he noticed that she was returning this glance. At last,
during the interval, he caught her smiling, yes, actually smiling, at
the chap. Instantly, he felt miserable, then angry, then miserable
again.
He could stand it no longer. “Do you know that chap there?” he asked,
trying to appear light and easy.
“Which one? What are you talking about?”
“Well, you keep smiling at him--I mean, that one there, the chap who’s
just had a permanent wave, by the look of him.”
“Oh, the one who keeps looking round. He seems to think he knows me,
doesn’t he? He’s rather attractive, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, I suppose as long as you think so, it’s all right, isn’t
it?” said Turgis bitterly. He could feel a pain, a real pain, as
bad as toothache, somewhere inside him. “He doesn’t attract me,” he
mumbled. “If you ask me, he looks a rotten twister--bit of a crook
or something.” But in his heart he knew that the chap was taller and
stronger and better-looking and better-dressed and altogether more
important than he was, and he could have killed him for it.
“He doesn’t at all,” said Lena. Then she laughed and made a face at
him. “You’re jealous, that’s all. And you oughtn’t to be jealous, it
isn’t nice. I’ll smile at him again now. I think he’s lovely.”
When she said that and looked so determinedly in that fellow’s
direction, Turgis was filled with a desire to take hold of her there
and then, dig his nails into her soft flesh, and hurt her until she
screamed. He was suddenly shaken with the force of this desire, which
was like nothing he had known before. But at that moment this little
game of glancing and smiling came to an end, and the person who put a
stop to it was the girl with the other man. She turned round too--and
good luck to her, thought Turgis--then frowned and said something to
her companion, and after that there was no more turning round and Lena
divided her attention between the stage and Turgis, who was left in a
queer state of mind and body.
“You can come and have some supper again, if you like,” said Lena, when
it was all over. “The maid wanted to go out again, so I said she could,
and if you’d like to come and help me again, you can.”
“I should think I would like to,” he cried enthusiastically. “And I’m
sorry if I was silly--y’know, in there.”
“Jealous boy,” she said, smiling. “That’s what you are, aren’t you? Oh,
it’s cold out here, isn’t it. Let’s get a taxi. Oh, never mind about
your precious one and six--I’ll pay. I want to get home quick, out of
the cold. Come on. Stop that one, there.”
Turgis had only been in a taxi once before in all his life. As he
sat close to Lena in the dark leathery interior and saw the familiar
crowded streets go reeling past the window, this effortless journeying
seemed magical. They were in Maida Vale in no time. It made life seem
at once wonderfully rich and simple. When they entered the house,
they heard a tremendous babble of talk coming from the lower flat. It
sounded as if that fantastic old foreign woman had summoned all her
relations and friends and all their friends and relations to discuss
her “troble.” In the room above, there appeared to be even more
cushions, gramophone records, boxes and bottles than there were the day
before. Once more, Lena mixed some cocktails, and Turgis encountered
the queer flavour, sweet at first, then slightly bitter, and ending
with a sudden glow. Once more, he had a second and bigger one, and
found everything enlarged, including himself. Once more, they sat down
to supper at the little table in front of the fire, though this time
there was more luxurious food and it all seemed to come out of little
cardboard containers. They were very friendly over the cocktails and
the food, and Lena, dressed in bright green, a colour that seemed to
throw her red-gold hair and light brown eyes, her scarlet mouth and
white neck, into brilliant relief, was lovelier than ever. It was
wonderful.
“Do you know Mrs. Dersingham?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “She came to the office once, and I just saw her,
that’s all.”
“She’s not as pretty as I am, is she? Or do you think she is?”
“Pretty as you!” Turgis gave a gasp, and meant it. “Why, there’s no
comparison. She’s just ordinary--and you’re lovely. Yes, you are,
really.”
“You don’t mean it. You’re just teasing me.”
“I’m not,” he said, solemnly. Teasing her indeed! A fat chance he would
ever have of teasing _her_. “I’ve never known any girl as pretty as
you--never seen one--in all my life before--and I never shall, never,
never.”
She rewarded him with a smile. Then she frowned. “I don’t like Mrs.
Dersingham. I met her once. I loathe her. She’s a snob and a rotten
cat.”
“Is she?” Turgis didn’t care what Mrs. Dersingham was.
“Yes, she is. I hate her. My father doesn’t like her either. He doesn’t
like Mr. Dersingham much either. He thinks he’s a fool.”
“I don’t think he’s a bad chap though,” said Turgis thoughtfully. “I’ve
never really had much to do with him. But I don’t believe he’s much
good at business. I know the business was in a rotten state just before
your father came. Good job for us he did come. I don’t pretend to know
much about it, but I do know that. Mr. Golspie’s clever, isn’t he?”
She nodded. “He’s always making a lot of money, but he usually spends
it all or loses it in some mad scheme. He hates staying in one place
long, and if it wasn’t for that, he could have made a lot more money
and been really rich. But he doesn’t care about that. When he wrote to
tell me he was coming to London, he said I’d have to come, too, because
he was going to stay a long time and make a proper home for us, but now
he’s here, he says he doesn’t like London, and he’s going away again
soon.”
“Is he?” Turgis stared at her. “What--how do you mean ‘soon’?”
“Oh, quite soon,” she replied carelessly. Then she remembered
something. “Look here, I may be wrong, though. And you mustn’t say
anything to anybody, will you? Promise you won’t.”
“All right, I won’t. But if he went,” Turgis continued, regarding her
earnestly, “would you go too?”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?”
“Yes, it is. You wouldn’t be going, would you?”
“I might--pass me a cigarette, will you?--and then again, I might not.
It all depends. But, look here, if my father knew I’d been saying
anything, he’d be furious, and though he usually lets me have my own
way, when he’s really furious, he’s hellish, I can tell you.”
“I’ll bet he is,” said Turgis, who had never had any doubts about that.
“I wouldn’t like to see him in a temper.”
“What a dreary depressing conversation!” she cried, getting up. “Let’s
have another drink. Have you ever been tight? I expect you have.
I got tight once or twice in Paris, with some Americans. We were
drinking champagne and liqueurs all night. I fell on the floor once and
rolled under a table and went to sleep for hours and hours. Shove the
gramophone on, with something decent on. Then come and have this drink
and I’ll see if you can dance yet.”
They did not dance long, however, for Lena announced that she was too
tired and that he was too clumsy. She turned off one of the two shaded
lights and went and stood by the fire. He joined her there, standing
quite close, trembling a little. He put his arm round her tentatively
and when she did not move away, he tightened it. She half turned so
that she was lightly pressing against him, and then she lifted her
glamorous face, looked at him with huge mysterious eyes, raised her
lips to within an inch or two of his, and whispered, “Wouldn’t you like
to kiss me?”
“Yes,” and he made a quick movement.
But she was quicker still, and in a second had broken away from him and
was laughing. “Well, you can’t then--unless you say you adore me and
are madly in love with me and that I’m the most wonderful person you’ve
ever met and that you’ll do anything in the world I ask. Now then.”
“But you are. Oh, you are,” he stammered, all his heart trying to
break through. “I’ve thought that ever since I saw you that day in the
office. I’ve never thought about anything else. I used to come and
stand outside this house, hoping to see you again, just to look at you.”
“You didn’t.” There was a faint suggestion of giggling in her voice.
“You didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. Lots of nights. I did, really. Oh, Lena----”
“Oh, funny boy!” she cried, mocking him. “Well, you can kiss me--if you
can catch me.”
And she dodged behind enormous armchairs and round the various tables
and he went almost blindly after her, until at last she darted across
to the big deep sofa thing, and there sank down among the cushions.
“No, no,” she cried, laughing and breathless, as he came up, “you
didn’t catch me.”
But now he bent over her, clasped her fiercely in his arms, and kissed
her hard. When he drew back, she began laughing and protesting again,
but in another minute her arms were about his neck and her body was
crushed against his and they were kissing again. After a few minutes of
this, she pushed him away and sat up, but she gave him her hand and he
knelt there, holding it, with great roaring tides sounding in his ears.
“And now you’ve got to behave yourself,” she said, strangely calm.
“Yes,” he said humbly, looking up at her. If she had spoken kindly to
him then he would have cried.
She smiled at him, and then, leaning forward, rubbed his cheek gently
with her other hand. She brought her face nearer his, so that her
mouth flamed again in his misty sight, but as he raised his head,
she retreated, until at last he sprang up and clasped her to him as
fiercely as before, and they were kissing again. For an hour she kept
him swaying and lunging and beating about in this wild dark tide, and
sometimes he was only gripping her hand and pressing it to his cheek
and at other times she was completely in his arms for a few moments,
answering his drive of passion with sudden bright flares of her own.
And then, strangely calm again, she told him he must go.
Dazed and aching, he leaned against the back of a chair and stared at
her with hot pricking eyes.
She looked at herself in the mirror above the fireplace, humming a
little dance tune. Then she turned round, met his stare with a slight
frown, and pointed out again that he really must go.
He wanted to say all manner of wonderful things to her, but could not
find words for them. He tried to put them into the look he gave her.
“Can I see you to-morrow?” he said at last.
“Mmmm?” She pretended to look very thoughtful. “Well, perhaps. What do
you want to do?”
“I don’t mind what it is so long as I’m with you,” he assured her,
trying to smile, but finding his face all stiff, so stiff that a
smile would crack it. “What would you like to do? Can’t I take you
somewhere?”
“Yes. I’ll tell you what. I’d like to see that Ronald Mawlborough
talkie, that new one, you know--where is it? at the Sovereign. Isn’t
that it--the Sovereign? I believe it’s terribly crowded, so you’d have
to book seats.”
“I’ll do that if you’ll only come,” said Turgis stoutly.
“All right. We’ll go there, then. And you get the seats, don’t forget.”
“I shan’t forget. What time?”
“Let me see. Oh, I’ll meet you just outside at quarter to eight. I
believe that’s just before the Ronald Mawlborough picture starts,
because I looked it up in the paper, this morning.”
“Quarter to eight. All right then. And--I say--Lena----”
But she pointed to his hat and coat, and when he had got them on
she took his arm and led him to the door. “You can tell me all that
to-morrow. But just tell me this. Am I nice?”
“Oh, Lena--you’re the most marvellous girl--oh, I don’t know what to
say----”
“Don’t you, dar-ling?” she replied, laughing at him. She came very
close, held up her mouth, drew it back suddenly, laughed again, but
finally allowed herself to be kissed.
Turgis was still dazed, still aching, still hot and pricking about the
eyes, as he went out into the street and turned to have a last look at
the enchanted window above; and desire burned and raged in him as it
had never done when he had vainly searched the long lighted streets for
an answering smile, had stared at red mouths, soft chins, rounded arms
and legs in tube trains and buses and teashops, had felt those exciting
little pressures in the darkness of the picture theatres, had returned
to his little room, tired in body but with a heated imagination, as
he had done so many times, to see its dim corners conjure themselves
tantalisingly into the shapes of lovely beckoning girls. The flame of
this desire was fed from the heart. He was now in love, terribly in
love. The miracle had happened; the one girl had arrived; and with
this single magical stroke, life was completed. He merely existed no
longer; but now he lived, and, a lover at last, was at last himself.
Love had only to be kind to him, and there was nothing he would not
do in return; he was ready to lie, to beg, to steal, to slave day and
night, to rise to astounding heights of courage; all these trifles, so
long as he could still love and be loved.
The conductor of the 31 bus, noticing the young man with the rather
large nose, the open mouth and irregular teeth, the drooping chin,
whose full brown eyes shone as they stared into vacancy, whose face had
a queer glowing pallor, might easily have concluded that there was a
chap who was sickening for something. But Turgis was alight with love.
He sat there in a dream ecstasy of devotion, in which remembered kisses
glittered like stars.
V
“Please, Mr. Smeeth,” he said, next morning, “could you let me have a
pound to-day?”
Mr. Smeeth rubbed his chin irritably. “Well, you know, Turgis, I
don’t like doing this,” he said, fussily. “It’s not so much the thing
itself----”
“It’s only till to-morrow morning,” Turgis pointed out, for the next
day, Saturday, was the fortnightly pay day.
“Yes, I know that, and it’s a small thing in itself, but it’s a bad
system. Once you start doing that sort of thing, you don’t know where
you’re going to end. When I was with the Imperial Trading Company,
before the war, they’d a very easy-going cashier there, an old chap
called Hornsea, and we used to be paid every month. The result was,
some of the fellows, particularly one or two of the lively sparks, were
subbing all the time and old Hornsea would let them have it out of the
petty cash. What happened in the long run? He got let down, badly let
down. Now I don’t mean to say you’re going to let me down----”
“You know I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Smeeth.”
“Well, you couldn’t, not even if you tried,” said Mr. Smeeth with
great emphasis. “It wouldn’t work here at all. I’m not old Hornsea.
But, believe me, my boy, it’s a bad system. Can’t you last out until
to-morrow morning? I could lend you a bob or two myself, for that
matter.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Smeeth. I’d rather have the pound on account,
if you don’t mind. It’s something special I have on to-night.” And
he added to himself that old Smeethy would be just about dumb with
surprise if he knew too.
“Oh, well, in that case, I suppose you’d better have it. But it’s a
special case, mind. And don’t forget you’ll have a pound less to-morrow
morning.” He carefully made out a slip, _Sub. H. Turgis_--£1 0s. 0d.,
placed it in the petty cashbox, and then handed over the pound note.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Smeeth,” said Turgis, quietly, humbly.
That was the first thing done. The next was to book the seats at the
Sovereign. He could have telephoned and then paid for them in the
evening, but this did not occur to him, for he did not belong to the
seat-booking classes, and even if it had occurred to him, he would
have rejected it as being too precarious. To make certain of getting
good seats, he curtailed his lunch to a mere gobble and gulp, then
hurried off to the West End and the Sovereign, which was already open.
Indeed, for the last hour or so, the Sovereign had been doing excellent
business, chiefly with young wives who had come in from distant suburbs
to buy three and a half yards of curtain material and, having saved
ninepence, felt they were entitled to a glimpse or two of Ronald
Mawlborough. Early as it was, there were several people in front of
Turgis at the advance booking office, but he was able to get two fairly
good seats at four and sixpence each. Nine bob for the pictures! This
was easily his record, and it certainly seemed a lot of money, nearly
as much as he earned in a whole day. Nevertheless he paid it gladly.
With the tickets in his pocket, to say nothing of eleven shillings to
meet emergencies, he had nothing to do now but quietly exist until
quarter to eight, and then--Lena.
It was not worth while going back to his lodgings after he had finished
at the office, so he went to a teashop not very far from the Sovereign
and there spun out his meal as long as he decently could. Even then,
however, it was only half-past seven when he arrived at the Sovereign;
but he did not mind that, for it would be pleasant just standing there,
watching the crowd, and knowing that every minute brought Lena nearer
to him. There was a queue waiting for the cheaper seats. Turgis had
stood in that queue many a time. Now he looked at it with a mingling
of pity and scorn. It seemed to belong to some ancient and desiccated
past. In the entrance hall, under the russet globes, the footmen and
pageboys in chocolate and gold were handing the people on to one
another and sending them, in two jerky dark streams, up the two great
marble staircases. For the first ten minutes, Turgis merely lounged
about, but after that, when he knew that Lena might arrive any moment,
he carefully planted himself in the centre, in sight of all the doors
in front, so that there was no chance of missing her. Hundreds of girls
passed in with their young men, but not one of them as pretty as Lena.
A few days ago he would have envied a good many of those fellows, but
now he could afford to pity them. They didn’t know what a girl was.
“Wait till you see Lena,” he told them, under his breath, as they
passed, unconscious, smiling.
At five minutes to eight, he pointed out to himself that Lena had been
ten minutes late the night before at the Colladium. Girls always kept
a chap waiting. They were famous for it. At eight o’clock he began
to be anxious. He wondered if he was waiting in the wrong place, and
he hastily searched the whole breadth of the entrance. At quarter
past eight, his eyes began to smart. Time, which had passed so slowly
at first, was now rushing away. The Ronald Mawlborough picture had
started long ago. A lump, compact of sheer misery, rose in his throat
and then wobbled up and down there, trying to choke him. Half-a-dozen
times he stepped forward eagerly, only to retire again, under the
stare of strange girls who thought they were about to be accosted, and
to pretend to himself that it was still worth while staying there a
little longer. The last half-hour was nothing but a dismal farce, for
he knew that she could not be coming now, yet somehow his feet refused
to move more than a yard or two away. It was nine o’clock when he
finally left the place, with two useless tickets in his pocket. One of
them he could have used, but he never thought for a moment of doing so.
It was Lena he wanted to see, not Ronald Mawlborough.
He thought of a hundred excuses for her. She might have been taken ill
quite suddenly, for girls often were, he believed. Something might have
happened at the house. Her father might have come back unexpectedly.
What he could not believe was that there was any mistake about the
meeting itself, for she had suggested both the time and the place.
Still struggling with his disappointment, he hurried along, through
the stupid idiotic crowds, and caught the first bus that would take
him to Maida Vale. More excited every minute, he turned at last into
Carrington Villas, and almost ran to get a sight of 4a. There was no
light coming from the sitting-room. She was not there. Nevertheless, he
came to the conclusion that somebody was in, for after waiting a few
minutes, he thought he saw a light go on in one of the other windows.
Once he had made up his mind, he did not hesitate at all, but marched
straight up to the door and rang the bell. He remembered then that it
was probably out of order. Still, he rang again.
“Yes,” said a voice, as the door opened a few inches, “what is it?”
“Is Miss Golspie in, please?”
The girl, obviously the maid who had been out the two previous nights,
now opened the door properly and came forward to have a look at him.
“Oo no, she isn’t.”
“Do you know where she’s gone?”
“Oo no, I don’t.”
“Oh--I see,” said Turgis miserably. “I was hoping to see her to-night.”
“Well,” said the girl confidentially, “I think she went out with a
friend, because she got all dressed up just after seven and she told
me she wouldn’t be back till very late, and then about half-past seven
a young gentleman called for her in a motor-car. And that’s all I can
tell you. Would you like to leave a message?”
No, no message. He walked slowly down the garden, out of the gate,
across the road. He had to stop at the corner, because he was biting
his handkerchief, which he had screwed into a ball. Then, when at last
he was quiet and had put his handkerchief away, he walked on and on
through a blank misery of a night.
Mr. Pelumpton was sitting up alone, just finishing his last pipe and a
mouthful of beer, when Turgis burst into the back room.
“Can you lend me some ink, please?” he asked.
“Yersh, I think sho. I got a drop shomewhere. But you’re not going to
shtart writing lettersh thish time o’ night, boy, are yer? If I wash
like you, clerking all day in a norfish, writing lettersh about thish,
that, an’ the other, never shtopping, why, deary me!--you wouldn’t
catch me wanting to write lettersh thish time o’ night, my wordsh you
wouldn’t----”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Turgis screamed at him, “let me have the ink if
you’ve got any and stop yapping.”
“’Ere, ’ere, ’ere, ’ere, ’ere! Thatsh a way to talk now, ishn’t it!”
Mr. Pelumpton, offended and on his dignity, produced the ink-bottle
and put it down on the table and then promptly turned his back on it.
“There’sh shuch a thing,” he continued, still with his back turned,
“ash mannersh an’ ashkin’ for a thing in a proper way. And you can’t
’ave everything you want the minute you want it, not in thish world you
can’t, and it’sh no good you or any other man----”
But Turgis had banged the door behind him and was on his way upstairs.
He sat in his little room, a pen in his hand, a writing pad on his
knee, but at the end of half-an-hour there were only a few stiff
sentences down on the paper, although a torrent of phrases, angry,
reproachful, bitter, appealing, had gone raging through his head. When,
in despair, he crumpled the paper and flung down his pen and then
wandered wretchedly to the window, the night out there was filled with
tall handsome young men with wavy hair and evening clothes, all with
Lena in their arms. They were laughing at him. She was laughing at him.
He left the window, and told himself that perhaps she wasn’t, though,
perhaps she was sorry now. He wished he had waited in Carrington Villas
until she had returned, no matter how late that might have been. He
smoothed out the writing pad and tried to decide whether he should
write something short and forceful or long and appealing. Oh, but what
was the use of writing! He would see her, speak to her, tell her what
he thought while looking her straight in the eyes. He would show her
she wasn’t dealing with a kid now, but with a Man.
He undressed, and, as usual emptied his pockets. Two tickets, four and
six each, for the Sovereign Picture Theatre. And it was she who had
suggested it, and she had never even bothered letting him know she
wasn’t coming, but had just gone out with somebody else, had dressed
up, got into a car, and laughed at him or forgotten his existence. He
turned out the light, got into bed, and found himself in a hot salty
darkness, his eyes filling with tears.
_Chapter Eight_: MISS MATFIELD’S NEW YEAR
I
A day or two before Mr. Golspie returned, Miss Matfield, sitting with
cold feet and a novel she disliked in the 13 bus, realised with a
shock that it was nearly Christmas. The shops she passed every day in
the bus along Regent Street and Oxford Street had been celebrating
Christmas for some time; and it was weeks since they had first broken
out into their annual crimson rash of holly berries, robins, and Father
Christmasses. The shops, followed by the illustrated papers, began it
so early, with their full chorus of advertising managers and window
dressers, shouting “Christmas Is Here,” at a time when it obviously
wasn’t, that when it did actually come creeping up, you had forgotten
about it. Miss Matfield told herself this, and then remembered that
every year her mother used to cry, “What, nearly Christmas already! I
never thought it was so near. It’s taken me completely by surprise,
this year.” Yes, every year she used to say that, and year after
year, Miss Matfield would tease her about it. And now, Miss Matfield
told herself, she had begun to say it, just as if she was on the
point of becoming forgetful and absurd and middle-aged. Oh--foul!
She stared out of the window. Those two miles of _Xmas Gifts_ and
lavish electric lighting and artificial holly leaves and cotton wool
snow were still rolling past. The festive season--help! It was all an
elaborate stunt to persuade everybody to spend money buying useless
things for everybody else. She tried her novel again: _The months
passed, and still Jeffrey made no sign. He had not forgiven her. In
despair, Jenifer accepted an invitation to join the Mainwarings in
Madeira, returned to a gay but feverish fortnight in Chelsea (where
John Anderson sought her out everywhere and never left her side), and
then appeared, still smiling, still audacious, but with a vaguely
haunted look, at Cap d’Antibes. It was there she heard that Jeffrey had
been seen at Miami--“And with Gloria Judge, my dear.”_ And that was
quite enough of that. Who cared what happened to Jenifer and Jeffrey,
the pair of ninnies? And why were all these novels always filled with
people who spent all their time travelling about to mere resorts and
spas, and deciding whom to live with next? Nobody ever did any work in
them.
She returned to the subject of Christmas. It was, on the whole, she
decided, revolting. You gave people a lot of silly things, diaries and
calendars and rot, or useful things that were not right, gloves of the
wrong size and stockings of the wrong shade (and she would have to be
thinking out her presents now, and she was terribly hard up); and they
in their turn gave you silly things and the useful things that were not
right. You ate masses of food you didn’t want (and even Dr. Matfield,
who had ideas about diet, said it didn’t matter at Christmas), and then
you sat about, pretending to be jolly, but really stodged, sleepy,
headachy, and in urgent need of bicarbonate of soda. If you stayed at
home, you yawned, tried to convince your mother that you hadn’t a rich
secret life you were hiding from her, and drearily sampled the family
supply of literature. If you went out, you had to pretend you were
having a marvellous time because you were wearing hats from crackers
and playing pencil and paper games (“Let me see, a river beginning
with ‘V’?”). And what was so terribly depressing and revolting about
it all was that it was possible to imagine a really good Christmas,
the adult equivalent of the enchanting Christmasses of childhood, the
sort of Christmas that people always thought they were going to have
and never did have. As the bus stopped by the dark desolation of Lord’s
cricket-ground, swallowed two women who were all parcels, comic hats,
and fuss (a sure sign this that Christmas was near, for you never saw
these parcels-and-comic-hat women any other time), and then rolled
on, Miss Matfield took out from its secret recess that dream of a
Christmas. She was in an old house in the country somewhere, with
firelight and candlelight reflected in the polished wood surfaces; by
her side, adoring her, was a vague figure, a husband, tall, strong, not
handsome perhaps but distinguished; two or three children, vague too,
nothing but laughter and a gleam of curls; friends arriving, delightful
people--“Hello,” they cried. “What a marvellous place you’ve got here!
I _say_, Lilian!”; some smiling servants; logs on the fires, snow
falling outside, old silver shining on the mahogany dining table, and
“Darling, you look wonderful in that thing,” said the masculine shadow
in his deep thrilling voice. “Oh, you _fool_, stop it,” Miss Matfield
cried to herself. She had only brought out that nonsensical stuff to
annoy herself. She liked reminding herself how silly she could be. It
braced her.
She would go home, as usual, for Christmas, and on the way there
she would look forward to it and imagine that _this_ time it was
going to be rather nice, and once she was there she would wonder
how she could have thought it would be anything but depressing. All
as usual. Still, it would be a change, a break in what had lately
been the very dull round of the office and the Burpenfield. Never
had the round been duller. The Burpenfield was getting worse; Evelyn
Ansdell--lucky child!--had gone off with her absurd father; and
nobody amusing had arrived. She had not met a single interesting
new person for ages. Then, life in Angel Pavement had merely been
so much typewriter-pounding since the one amusing person there, Mr.
Golspie, had been away. Mr. Golspie, she admitted to herself, with
unusual candour, _was_ amusing, easily the most amusing person on
the horizon--bless him!--and she would be glad when he came back. It
would be fun, if only one had the cheek and courage to do it, to bring
Mr. Golspie into the Club, to introduce him to Tatters, to say “Miss
Tattersby, this is the _only_ amusing man I know just now.” But--O
Lord!--she must keep off Tatters. In the Club, they talked about
Tatters day and night.
She had further proof of this, if she had wanted it, when she reached
the Club, for on the landing outside her room she met the depressing
Miss Kersey. “Is that you, Matfield?” Kersey wailed, all damp and
droopy as usual. “Don’t, _don’t_, go near Tatters to-night, whatever
you do. I went in to ask her about sub-letting my room and she simply
snapped my head off, didn’t give me an earthly chance to tell her when
I wanted to sub-let or anything. She just _flew_ at me, Matfield, as if
I’d been caught stealing or something. Isn’t Tatters really _awful_?
And yet the last time I went in, she was as nice as anything and even
asked me about my sister, the one who’s gone to Burma. I won’t go near
her now for months,” she added, really enjoying the fact that Miss
Tattersby could be so ferocious, so unpredictable in manner. “I’ll
send her notes as some of the others always do. Don’t you go near her
to-night.”
Miss Matfield said she had no intention of doing so, and then hurried
into her room, where she came to the conclusion, as she tidied herself
for dinner, that it was really Tatters who made the Burpenfield
endurable for people like Kersey, for she gave their lives a colouring
of danger and drama, poor old things. At dinner, she had to share a
table with Isabel Cadnam, the languid Morrison, and a recent arrival
who had taken Evelyn Ansdell’s old room, and annoyed Miss Matfield just
because she was not Evelyn Ansdell. But, apart from that, this new girl
was an irritating creature. Her name was Snaresbrook; she had untidy
dark hair, huge staring eyes (heavily made up), and white, flabby,
sagging cheeks; and she was soulful, gushing and psychic. So far she
had been a great success because she went round talking to people about
themselves very sympathetically, offering to tell their fortunes, and
going in tremendously for this heart-to-heart business. Miss Matfield,
a tougher subject than most, refused to be taken in. When she sat down
the other three were already there, and were talking about work.
“I’ll bet you’ll agree, Mattie,” said Miss Cadnam.
“What’s that?” inquired Miss Matfield.
“I was just saying that it’s part of the cussedness of everything that
nearly every girl here has the wrong job, I mean, if you like _one_
kind of thing, then it’s ten to one you have to work in a place where
it’s all another kind of thing. I’ve just discovered that Snaresbrook
here works for a film renting show, and she loathes it----”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Miss Snaresbrook put in softly in her soulful
contralto, “because I don’t loathe anybody. I don’t think one ought
to----”
“I do,” said Miss Morrison. “I loathe nearly everybody. I think the
world’s full of people who are absolutely foul.”
“No, I don’t loathe these film people. But I do feel they’re not my own
kind. I don’t feel really sympathetic towards them, and I feel there is
work of a better kind waiting for me.” And Miss Snaresbrook turned her
huge staring eyes, like the headlights of a car, round the table.
“That’s just what I’m saying,” cried the excitable Caddie. “Now I’d
adore to work at a film place; just my style. And here I am, assistant
secretary to the League of the Divine Lotus, and I’m sure you’d adore
that, wouldn’t you, Snaresbrook? Whereas, if you don’t mind my saying
so, I think these Divine Lotus people are all too sloppy to live,
and the minute they begin to talk now, they get on my nerves. If I
stay there much longer I’ll go potty too and break out into robes and
mystic stars and Wisdom from the East. If anybody mentions the East
now, I want to scream. A lot of fat film men smoking cigars would be a
marvellous change. And to go to trade shows if you want to--marvellous!”
“You two ought to swop jobs,” said Miss Matfield. “Then you’d both be
satisfied. What about that, Caddie?”
“That’s just where the cussedness comes in. They’d never have the right
ones. It’s the same with nearly everybody here. If you’re heavily West
End, you’re landed with a job at a wholesale cheap milliner’s somewhere
in the City----”
“Revolting!” murmured Miss Morrison.
“And if you’re a wild Socialist or something, like that Colenberg girl,
you find yourself secretary to Lady Thomson-Greggs in Berkeley Square
and grumble like anything because the place is stiff with footmen. I
told Ivor about that, the other night, and he said I ought to write an
article about it for the papers.”
“Why don’t you?” said Miss Snaresbrook. “I’m sure you could write. You
have the gift of expression. I don’t think I’ve looked at your hand
yet, have I? I’m sure it’s written in your hand.”
Miss Matfield looked across the table in time to catch a disgusted
glance from Morrison, whose grey eyes had also the gift of expression
and announced quite clearly that Snaresbrook was revolting. “Well, I
don’t think much of my job,” said Miss Matfield, “but I don’t know
that I particularly want anybody else’s here. The fact is, they’re all
pretty rotten, and that’s the real trouble. We don’t any of us get
a chance to do anything really important. They’re all silly little
mechanical jobs. If we were men, we’d be doing something decent now.
What chance has a girl? The rot they talk about women working! The men
jolly well see where all the decent jobs go to. And you know it.”
“True, Miss Matfield,” said Miss Snaresbrook, turning on all the
sympathetic stops. “I feel it’s particularly unjust in your case. A
girl with a strong character like you is entitled to an important,
responsible post. We have a long way to go yet. Men are still trying to
hold women back, to keep them in inferior places. And their attitude!
The things some of those film men have said to me!” She sighed, then
switched on the headlights.
“Yes, I’ll bet they’re a tough crowd,” said Caddie cheerfully, “but
that ought to make it amusing. Men are easy enough to handle. It’s
women who are so awful. There are some frightful old cats among those
Lotus creatures. They come swarming and drooping all over you, and all
the time they’re poking their long noses into your affairs and making
up the most fiendish lies. Give me men. I wish there were some in this
club.”
“Miss Cadnam, you don’t really,” said Miss Snaresbrook reproachfully.
“Yes, she does, and so do I,” said Miss Morrison, roused for once from
her languid disgust, “and so will you when you’ve been here as long as
we have. I’m not so terribly keen on men--most of them are pretty foul,
so far as I can see--but a few here would be a pleasant change. The
ones we do get as visitors are usually fairly hopeless, but even then I
like to see them down here, trying to pretend they don’t mind the foul
food. There are too many girls here. Ugh! Too much feminine slush and
slop. Too much powder and lipstick and cold cream. Too many stockings
and silk jumpers. Too many hot-water bottles and bedroom slippers. Too
much messiness and brightness and depressingness and sympathy. Every
time I hear some man clumping about here, and see him sit down, all
solid and thick, I’m delighted--I don’t care how terrible he is. Too
many women about. Revolting!”
“Whoops!” cried Caddie. “Go on, my dear. Don’t stop now.”
“Talk about girls living their own independent lives!” Miss Morrison
continued, pink and defiant. “It’s a marvel to me that after living
here a year or two and being faced with the prospect of living here for
donkey’s years like some of the poor old things----”
“Oh, don’t!” Miss Matfield groaned.
“I say that it’s a marvel to me we don’t just marry anybody, anybody at
all, or, failing that, run away with somebody. A place like this simply
encourages wild matrimony and risky adventures. And if there isn’t more
of it, I’ll tell you why. It’s not just because we’re all such ni-ice,
ni-ice girls, so ni-icely brought up, but because there aren’t many
chances going about.”
“Oh, aren’t there, Morrison?” said Caddie. “Speak for yourself.”
“I’m not speaking for myself or for anybody in particular----”
“You’re certainly not speaking for _me_, Miss Morrison,” said Miss
Snaresbrook, with large, sweet, forgiving smile. “I like the society
of men, but I like the society of other girls too. Whoever they are,
I find they interest me, and we have something to say to one another,
very often some little secret to share, some confession to make. Of
course, I admit those little clairvoyant gifts of mine have helped me a
great deal, and have brought me friends, dear friends, among girls who
probably imagined at first that they and I hadn’t much in common. And
I’m sure I intend to enjoy _my-self_ at the Burpenfield.” And, smiling
sympathetically at them all, she rose and left the table.
“And I hope it keeps fine for you,” muttered Miss Morrison to her
retreating back. “You know, of the many ghastly specimens who have
turned up here this year, I think that one the worst.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Miss Cadnam. “She’s not so bad, really----”
“That’s because she’s going to read Caddie’s palm to find her gift of
expression,” Miss Matfield explained.
“Of course it is,” said Miss Morrison. “You’re feeble, Caddie. I saw
you swallowing the bait, as if you’d just been born. Vile!”
“Have you people realised that it’s nearly Christmas?” said Miss
Matfield as they moved upstairs, where they could smoke.
“My dear Mattie,” cried Miss Cadnam, “you don’t mean to say you’ve only
just found that out! I’ve bought all my presents and sent half of them
off. If I don’t send some of my people very early presents, they never
remember to send me anything.”
“Christmas, yes,” said Miss Morrison, with languid distaste. “Isn’t
it foul? I haven’t bought a thing yet, haven’t even made out a list.
Anyhow, I haven’t any money. I loathe Christmas, even though one does
have a holiday. What good is it? Are you going home, Matfield?”
“Yes. I always do.”
“So am I. It’s pretty ghastly. It wasn’t so bad before my brother went
out to the Sudan. We used to have rather an amusing time.”
“But you’ve another brother, haven’t you, Morrison? I thought I saw him
here once.”
“Yes, Anthony. He’s at Cambridge, researching. By the way,” Miss
Morrison continued, “he wants to come along early next week and bring
his researching friend Jiggs or Hoggs or something and take me and any
lady friend o’ mine out for what passes for a gay evening up in the
Cambridge research labs. If either of you is dying to come, you can,
but I don’t advise it. I’m trying to get out of it.”
“I thought you were bursting to go round with a few men, Morrison.”
“No, it’s not as bad as all that. I’ve tried this before. Anthony, my
brother, is pretty glum and dumb--quite different from Tom, the Sudan
one--and his researching friend, Higgs or Joggs, is the limit. He’s
frightfully tall and awkward, with very short hair, a very long nose,
and spectacles, and when you try to make conversation with him, he
thinks you’re asking scientific questions. If he doesn’t know exactly,
he just says ‘I don’t know’; but if he does know, he explains all about
it, gives you a short lecture, and then completely shuts up. It’s like
being back at school, only worse. He’s a horror. Anthony, of course,
adores him, and thinks he’s conferring an immense favour on you by
bringing this monster. He said to me, ‘One day you’ll be proud to think
you’ve talked to Jiggs’--or Hoggs. And so I told him I wasn’t ambitious
and I’d risk having missed the great Higgs. No, on second thoughts, you
can’t come. I’m definitely going to put him off. Talking about Joggs
has brought it all back too clearly.”
“Hello!” cried Miss Cadnam, looking at her watch. “I must fly.”
“Ivor?”
“Ivor--thank God! We’re supposed to be in the middle of another row,
but I know he’ll be there.”
“What a ridiculous pair!” said Miss Matfield, smiling, as she watched
Caddie leave the lounge.
“Who? Caddie and her Ivor? Oh, quite mad, of course, from what I’ve
heard about them. Still,” said Miss Morrison carefully, “it does pass
the time for her, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, it does a lot more than that. Caddie lives a wonderfully dramatic
life. She probably would, anyhow, if there wasn’t Ivor to quarrel with
and then make it up with. She and Evelyn Ansdell were the only two
people here I’ve ever envied, because they both contrived to have an
exciting life all the time, even if they _were_ absurd. I think I shall
have to find a nice little Ivor.” And Miss Matfield gave a short laugh.
“You don’t lead a double life or anything of that kind, do you,
Matfield?” Miss Morrison inquired, almost wistfully.
“Heavens, no! What do you mean?”
“Let’s have another cigarette, shall we? Make a night of it. I only
meant--well, it’s a compliment, really----”
“It doesn’t sound like one.”
“Well, I meant that you looked as if you had a more interesting sort of
life going on _somewhere_. You go down to your office in the City--it
is in the City, isn’t it?--yes, I remember your telling me it was--and
you come back here and don’t seem to do anything much, but at the same
time you look quite alive, as if something’s happening somewhere.”
“It isn’t.” Miss Matfield laughed, then lit her cigarette. “I wish it
was. All perfectly dull, respectable, ordinary. A typical Burpenfield
existence.”
“Oh, foul! Well, I’m disappointed in you, I really am, Matfield. I’ve
been suspecting some time that you were a dark horse. Tell me, what
sort of men are there in that office of yours. Did I ever tell you I
was in the City once? I nearly died. I don’t believe it was a typical
City place at all, though I was only there a week. There were four men
there, two young ones with adenoids and whiny voices, who always called
me ‘Miss,’ and two older ones with red faces and waxed moustaches who
either shouted at me at the top of their voices or came over slimy
and breathed down my neck and put their hot hands on my shoulder.
Revolting! Don’t tell me they’re all like that. What are your lot like?”
They were in a quiet corner of the lounge, which was not so full as
usual, indeed almost empty, and Miss Matfield found herself drifting
into a fairly detailed description of the people in Angel Pavement,
concluding at some length with the newest arrival there, Mr. Golspie.
She ended with an account of her visit to the _Lemmala_, the foreign
sailors, the cabin, the vodka, all the strange romantic accessories.
She described it well, and Miss Morrison, who appeared to have dropped
her usual attitude of languid disdain towards this life, listened
eagerly.
“But, my dear Matfield,” she cried when it was done, “I think that was
a most amusing adventure. I like the sound of that man, even if he is
middle-aged and what not. Now, if I met people like that when I went
to work, I wouldn’t grumble. No such luck, not in Anglo-Catholic and
ladies’ bridge circles in Bayswater--nothing but old tabbies. I think I
shall have to try the City again, after all. I didn’t know there were
such entertaining, mysterious, brigandish sort of men down there.”
“That’s exactly what Mr. Golspie is--brigandish.”
“Quite right, too. I’m all for it. You ought to lure him in here, so
that I can meet him. But tell him to shave off that large moustache
first.”
“Why should I? It doesn’t matter to me. I’m not going to kiss him,”
Miss Matfield added quickly, without thinking what she was saying.
“No, I suppose you’re not,” said Miss Morrison meditatively. “By the
way, has he suggested you should?”
“No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. I believe you’re suffering
from a complex, Morrison. Why should he?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He sounds vaguely like it to me. I don’t mean he
sounded like those awful creatures with waxed moustaches that I worked
for--not a bit. Quite a different type. But still---- However, I’ll
say no more. Did you say he was away, this mystery man? When is he
coming back? Quite soon? All right, Matfield, you must tell me more
about this, you really must. I’m interested for once in my young but
embittered life. You must tell me more.”
“There won’t be anything to tell,” said Miss Matfield casually. “I
think I’ll write home, think about Christmas presents, have a bath,
and go to bed early. Good-night, Morrison.” No, of course, there
wouldn’t be anything to tell. And if there was, it was no business of
Morrison’s. (But Morrison was not a bad sort, much better than she used
to appear to be.) But then, there wouldn’t be. Absurd.