"Indeed!" I remarked carelessly.
"Yes; she's married."
I suppose I must have opened my mouth, for the cigarette dropped on
the table.
"She's what?" I exclaimed, after a moment's pause.
"Married," said George, with a laugh. "Her husband's in the wool
market. His name's Congreve; Barton says he's a very decent fellow.
They've taken Otter's Holt for the summer."
If you can imagine the end of the world coming just as you had
inherited a large fortune, you will get a very fair idea of my
emotions at that moment. I stared at George in a kind of ghastly
amazement; then, with an effort, I moistened my lips.
"I don't believe it," I said.
"It's true, though," said George. "Barton is coming over to stay
with them next month. Just my atrocious luck! I always fall in love
with women who either hate me or have already got husbands."
I suppose something in my face must have attracted his attention, for
he stopped and looked at me curiously.
"What's the matter, old man?" he asked. "Feeling bad?"
With a big effort I pulled myself together, and picked up the
cigarette which I had dropped.
"Nothing much, George," I said. "I've got a bit of a headache. Too
many sardines, I expect."
"You have been sitting about in the sun without a hat again," said
George severely. "I told you what would happen. Now, if you had a
little less hair, like me, you might have a little more sense." He
got up and put his hand on my shoulder. "You tumble in and lie
down," he added. "I'll wash up."
And George did.
I spent what I believe is generally called "a wretched night." It
must have been about two in the morning when I finally consigned
Barton and the bronze-haired girl, and my own ridiculous emotions, to
the bottom of the Thames, and, turning savagely over on my side,
dropped into a troubled, useless sort of sleep.
I was awake again at six, roused by the vigorous carolling of a
thrush, whose own love affairs were apparently in excellent order.
George was still sleeping. I crawled out carefully so as not to
disturb him, and, taking a towel, made my way down to the river.
There was the promise of another lovely day in the air, and the warm
early-morning sunshine seemed to bathe one in a kind of comforting
caress. By the time I had had my usual swim and dried myself on the
bank, my turbulent feelings of the previous night had given place to
what I believed to be a more or less philosophic resignation.
After all, I said to myself, there was nothing to be gained by
weeping and gnashing one's teeth. It was distinctly distressing that
my only attempt at falling in love should have met with so disastrous
a check; still, other people had had equally unpleasant experiences,
and had managed to survive them. Was it not brave old George Wither
who had summed up the situation in that delightfully reasonable
couplet:
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
I repeated the words aloud several times as I strolled back. It
comforted me to persuade myself that I agreed with them.