The Nymph and the Lamp by Thomas H Raddall Page B

in the gray reflection of the window. Eight o’clock! How awful! And she thought dismally, I couldn’t go out with him tonight. The mere notion of dressing was intolerable. So was the thought of food. She felt exhausted and she wanted nothing but to lie on the bed and if possible to sleep. She stood irresolute at the window, seeing the lights spring up across the court.
    Her indifferent gaze flicked from one to another and came to rest on the window where last night the sailors had been playing cards. Two of them were in the room now, under the dangling electric bulb, busy stuffing clothing into cheap suitcases. They were laughing. They paused to punch each other, to engage in a lively wrestle on the bed, a pair of strong figures locked in a furious embrace. Miss Jardine felt a pang of envy. They were clearing off to a ship. Tomorrow whatever memories they had of this place would be lost in the wind outside the harbor heads, and they would be thinking only of the adventures awaiting them somewhere else. She had long ceased to wonder why men went to sea. The marvel was that any stayed ashore. Everybody’s in prison, she thought rebelliously, only these men have the key.
    Slowly she drew the blind and switched on the light; and still absorbed in her thoughts she began to pluck fresh stockings and underthings from the battered chest of drawers. In another twenty minutes she was walking quickly along the street. The storm had left a delightful freshness in the air. The looming bulk of the upper city and Citadel Hill shut off the last trace of the twilight in the western sky, the street lamps and shop windows glowed, and overhead already the stars were bright. When she turned in to the teashop she fully expected Carney to be gone, but she saw him at once, sitting at a table in a corner and slowly blowing out tobacco smoke. The ash tray on the table held a small mound of cigarette stubs but now his big fist clutched the pipe. There lay the story of his long waiting. She was stung with remorse, but he looked up and sprang to his feet with such a glad smile spreading over his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes that she felt a wave of self-assurance pass over the wreckage of her mind.
    â€œMr. Carney, I’m always late, aren’t I? But this is awful! I really didn’t expect to find you here.”
    â€œI’d nearly given you up,” he confessed. He helped her out of her coat, and she sat down, looking about the shop. There was a scatter of late diners, young couples mostly, lingering over their dessert. She was glad she had put on her best frock, a light flowered thing, and a rather jaunty hat. The hat was old but of a quality that women would recognize as “good.” Not many of her things were “good.”
    â€œWhat kept you so long?” he said. “Or is a man supposed to ask?”
    â€œHe’s not supposed to ask. Anyhow, I couldn’t tell you—it’s too absurd. It upset me for a time but I feel better now. I could even eat.”
    â€œAh!” He beckoned the waitress who had been watching him so dubiously for the past hour. Miss Jardine did not feel hungry but she felt obliged to order something to accompany the meal of an obviously hungry man. When the food came she pecked at it in a determined way and found, somewhat to her surprise, that she could eat almost with appetite. She led the talk, chattering feverishly about the things they knew, the gossip of the trade, the movements of operators from one station to another, the latest apparatus. (“Did you know the Americans are broadcasting music and things like that? It’s quite a fad. People here in the city are fixing up receiving sets with audions and honeycomb coils and condensers and phones.”)
    The time and the food passed pleasantly. When the coffee came, Carney looked at his pipe and she said at once, “Light up, if you like. And please give me a cigarette if you’ve any