go somewhere quieter in a little while," she had said, and had turned to watch the band.
After that it would not have mattered to George if she had not spoken again during the whole evening. She had actually said that they were going to be together, and he relaxed, rather astonished, but so grateful that he could have wept.
Then later, when the band had left the dais for a short interval, she looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
"Shall we go?" she said, pushing back her chair.
Obediently George followed her down the stairs to the street. The sudden decision to leave, the complete indifference to his own plans, and her take-it-for-granted attitude that he wanted to go with her reminded him of Sydney Brant. That was how he behaved. Both of them knew what they wanted. They led: others followed.
Neither of them spoke as they walked along the pavement together. Cora's small head, level with George's shoulder, moved along smoothly before him, as if she were being drawn along on wheels. She left behind her the faintest smell of sandalwood.
The evening light was beginning to fade. Storm clouds crept across the sky. The air in the streets had become stale, like the breath of a sick man, and sudden gusts of hot wind sent dust and scraps of paper swirling around the feet of the crowd moving sullenly along the hot pavements.
At the corner of Orchard and Oxford Streets, Cora paused. She glanced along the street towards Marble Arch: a street thronged with people all making a leisurely way to the Park.
"I'm hungry," she said. "Let's get something to eat."
"That's an idea," George said eagerly, conscious of Robinson's eleven pounds in his wallet. "Where would you like to go? The Dorchester?" He was quite willing to spend his last penny on her if it would help to create a good impression. He had never been to the Dorchester, but he had heard about it. It was the smartest place he could think of that was close at hand.
"The what?" she asked, staring at him blankly. "Do you mean the Dorchester Hotel?"
He felt himself flushing. "Yes," he said. "Why not?"
"What, in those clothes?" she asked, eyeing him up and down. "My dear man! They wouldn't let you past the door."
He looked at his worn shoes, his face burning. If she had struck him with a whip she couldn't have succeeded in hurting him more.
"And what about me?" she went on, apparently unaware that she had so completely crushed him. "The Dorchester in these rags?"
"I—I'm sorry," George said, not looking at her. "I just wanted to give you a good time. I—I didn't think it mattered what you wore."
"Well, it does," she said coldly.
There was a long, awkward pause. George was too flustered to suggest anywhere else. She'll go in a moment, he thought feverishly. I'm sure she'll go. Why am I standing like this, doing nothing? I can't expect her to suggest anything—it's my place to make the arrangements.
But the more he tried to think where he could take her, the more panic-stricken he became.
She was eyeing him curiously now. He could feel her eyes on his face.
"Perhaps you have something else to do . . ." she said suddenly.
"Me? Of course not," George said, over eager and almost shouting. "I—I've got nowhere to go. I just don't go anywhere, that's all. I—I don't know where you'd like to go. Perhaps you'll suggest something."
"Where do you live?"
Astonished, George told her.
"Let's go to your place," she said. "I'm tired of the heat and the crowds."
George could scarcely believe his ears.
"My place?" he repeated blankly. "Oh, you wouldn't like that. I mean it's only a room. It—it isn't much. It's not very comfortable."
"It's somewhere to sit, isn't it?" she said, staring a little impatiently at him. "Or can't you take women there?"
He hadn't the faintest idea. It was something he had never contemplated doing. He had visions of Mrs Rhodes' disapproving face, and he flinched away from the thought. Then he remembered once seeing one of the
After that it would not have mattered to George if she had not spoken again during the whole evening. She had actually said that they were going to be together, and he relaxed, rather astonished, but so grateful that he could have wept.
Then later, when the band had left the dais for a short interval, she looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
"Shall we go?" she said, pushing back her chair.
Obediently George followed her down the stairs to the street. The sudden decision to leave, the complete indifference to his own plans, and her take-it-for-granted attitude that he wanted to go with her reminded him of Sydney Brant. That was how he behaved. Both of them knew what they wanted. They led: others followed.
Neither of them spoke as they walked along the pavement together. Cora's small head, level with George's shoulder, moved along smoothly before him, as if she were being drawn along on wheels. She left behind her the faintest smell of sandalwood.
The evening light was beginning to fade. Storm clouds crept across the sky. The air in the streets had become stale, like the breath of a sick man, and sudden gusts of hot wind sent dust and scraps of paper swirling around the feet of the crowd moving sullenly along the hot pavements.
At the corner of Orchard and Oxford Streets, Cora paused. She glanced along the street towards Marble Arch: a street thronged with people all making a leisurely way to the Park.
"I'm hungry," she said. "Let's get something to eat."
"That's an idea," George said eagerly, conscious of Robinson's eleven pounds in his wallet. "Where would you like to go? The Dorchester?" He was quite willing to spend his last penny on her if it would help to create a good impression. He had never been to the Dorchester, but he had heard about it. It was the smartest place he could think of that was close at hand.
"The what?" she asked, staring at him blankly. "Do you mean the Dorchester Hotel?"
He felt himself flushing. "Yes," he said. "Why not?"
"What, in those clothes?" she asked, eyeing him up and down. "My dear man! They wouldn't let you past the door."
He looked at his worn shoes, his face burning. If she had struck him with a whip she couldn't have succeeded in hurting him more.
"And what about me?" she went on, apparently unaware that she had so completely crushed him. "The Dorchester in these rags?"
"I—I'm sorry," George said, not looking at her. "I just wanted to give you a good time. I—I didn't think it mattered what you wore."
"Well, it does," she said coldly.
There was a long, awkward pause. George was too flustered to suggest anywhere else. She'll go in a moment, he thought feverishly. I'm sure she'll go. Why am I standing like this, doing nothing? I can't expect her to suggest anything—it's my place to make the arrangements.
But the more he tried to think where he could take her, the more panic-stricken he became.
She was eyeing him curiously now. He could feel her eyes on his face.
"Perhaps you have something else to do . . ." she said suddenly.
"Me? Of course not," George said, over eager and almost shouting. "I—I've got nowhere to go. I just don't go anywhere, that's all. I—I don't know where you'd like to go. Perhaps you'll suggest something."
"Where do you live?"
Astonished, George told her.
"Let's go to your place," she said. "I'm tired of the heat and the crowds."
George could scarcely believe his ears.
"My place?" he repeated blankly. "Oh, you wouldn't like that. I mean it's only a room. It—it isn't much. It's not very comfortable."
"It's somewhere to sit, isn't it?" she said, staring a little impatiently at him. "Or can't you take women there?"
He hadn't the faintest idea. It was something he had never contemplated doing. He had visions of Mrs Rhodes' disapproving face, and he flinched away from the thought. Then he remembered once seeing one of the
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