wondered whether she was Ill.
By a quarter to eight he had lost his temper and was telling himself that anyway it was nothing to do with him. He didn’t care, anyway. And she probably had to earn her living, the poor little wretch.
He then verged upon an Eight O’clock theory. . . .
But this fell through also, and after a time he cast it from his mind. He entered whole-heartedly into his work, and made a good deal of money.
C HAPTER XV
S HE DID NOT come in throughout the entire next week, and he told himself (prompted by a minute but unforeseen malice) that it was just as well.
All the same, intermittently, and at odd moments of the day, the thing occupied and irritated him. She had not kept her word. He could not credit that it was sheer perfidy: heguessed that it was due to some contingency in her life of which he had no knowledge. A week, however, should have covered this, and she should have been in, if only for a moment. And in the event of her having slighted him of her own free will, he desired vaguely, to get his revenge – to meet her once more, even, in order to get his revenge. He had spent over thirty shillings on her the other evening. At least he could not tolerate rough edges, and wanted to round the thing off.
The only little advantage was that it gave Ella what she deserved. She was too clever by half.
‘None of your friends in to-night, Bob,’ she had said, working on some mystic divinations of her own, on that first evening of his disappointment. And she had clearly expected them to come sooner or later.
But they had not done so, for a whole week, and possibly would never do so again. Ella was therefore mistaken. Ella had been very properly snubbed for being right when she had no right to be – the most intolerable of all advantages.
But on Thursday evening (his next night off) Bob was again in the West End. He had bought a book in the Charing Cross Road, paid an early visit to the ‘Capitol,’ and then gone on to the Corner House for a meal. He came out of this at about half-past nine, and found himself in Shaftesbury Avenue.
It occurred to him that this was where he had met her before, and that he might very easily run into her now. Such an encounter, he decided, would give him indisputable pleasure – the pleasure of hearing her excuses and observing her bearing. Furthermore, he was detachedly interested in what had actually become of her.
For these reasons, on reaching the end of Shaftesbury Avenue, he turned again and strolled back. If he knew anything of her habits, she was certain to be somewhere about. He was not looking for her. He was submitting himself to the possibility of encounter. The night air was fine and he had nothing better to do than stroll around.
But she was not in Shaftesbury Avenue, and he turned down Wardour Street. The place was alive with them – old and young. He made a complete circle, round by the Pavilion to the top of Wardour Street again. He then once more walked along Shaftesbury Avenue towards the Palace.
Now there is an extraordinary allure in walking around, or hanging about the streets, in the vague hope of catching (and so justifying your rather bold speculations) one who has no thought of meeting you. You may, after a while, have lost all desire to see the individual in question, but at the same time you find a peculiar difficulty in behaving like a man and cutting a loss. Having gone to the trouble of trailing up and down six or seven streets, you are loth to lose your point for a ha’porth of obstinacy, and are almost convinced that the very street providence has selected for you is the eighth. You therefore go up it. Then your eighth will probably bring you to some short cut, or other topographically excusable ninth, and unless you are very careful you will find yourself before long calmly attacking your nineteenth. Meanwhile your obstinacy has hardened almost to the pitch of impregnability. You go round and round. Indeed, unless there is
By a quarter to eight he had lost his temper and was telling himself that anyway it was nothing to do with him. He didn’t care, anyway. And she probably had to earn her living, the poor little wretch.
He then verged upon an Eight O’clock theory. . . .
But this fell through also, and after a time he cast it from his mind. He entered whole-heartedly into his work, and made a good deal of money.
C HAPTER XV
S HE DID NOT come in throughout the entire next week, and he told himself (prompted by a minute but unforeseen malice) that it was just as well.
All the same, intermittently, and at odd moments of the day, the thing occupied and irritated him. She had not kept her word. He could not credit that it was sheer perfidy: heguessed that it was due to some contingency in her life of which he had no knowledge. A week, however, should have covered this, and she should have been in, if only for a moment. And in the event of her having slighted him of her own free will, he desired vaguely, to get his revenge – to meet her once more, even, in order to get his revenge. He had spent over thirty shillings on her the other evening. At least he could not tolerate rough edges, and wanted to round the thing off.
The only little advantage was that it gave Ella what she deserved. She was too clever by half.
‘None of your friends in to-night, Bob,’ she had said, working on some mystic divinations of her own, on that first evening of his disappointment. And she had clearly expected them to come sooner or later.
But they had not done so, for a whole week, and possibly would never do so again. Ella was therefore mistaken. Ella had been very properly snubbed for being right when she had no right to be – the most intolerable of all advantages.
But on Thursday evening (his next night off) Bob was again in the West End. He had bought a book in the Charing Cross Road, paid an early visit to the ‘Capitol,’ and then gone on to the Corner House for a meal. He came out of this at about half-past nine, and found himself in Shaftesbury Avenue.
It occurred to him that this was where he had met her before, and that he might very easily run into her now. Such an encounter, he decided, would give him indisputable pleasure – the pleasure of hearing her excuses and observing her bearing. Furthermore, he was detachedly interested in what had actually become of her.
For these reasons, on reaching the end of Shaftesbury Avenue, he turned again and strolled back. If he knew anything of her habits, she was certain to be somewhere about. He was not looking for her. He was submitting himself to the possibility of encounter. The night air was fine and he had nothing better to do than stroll around.
But she was not in Shaftesbury Avenue, and he turned down Wardour Street. The place was alive with them – old and young. He made a complete circle, round by the Pavilion to the top of Wardour Street again. He then once more walked along Shaftesbury Avenue towards the Palace.
Now there is an extraordinary allure in walking around, or hanging about the streets, in the vague hope of catching (and so justifying your rather bold speculations) one who has no thought of meeting you. You may, after a while, have lost all desire to see the individual in question, but at the same time you find a peculiar difficulty in behaving like a man and cutting a loss. Having gone to the trouble of trailing up and down six or seven streets, you are loth to lose your point for a ha’porth of obstinacy, and are almost convinced that the very street providence has selected for you is the eighth. You therefore go up it. Then your eighth will probably bring you to some short cut, or other topographically excusable ninth, and unless you are very careful you will find yourself before long calmly attacking your nineteenth. Meanwhile your obstinacy has hardened almost to the pitch of impregnability. You go round and round. Indeed, unless there is
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