at the club on tuesday morning downs brought to his bedside a letter addressed in a large, striking, and untidy hand. not until he had generally examined the letter did he realize that it was from lois ingram. he remembered having mentioned to her that he lived at his club—pickering's; but he had laid no stress on the detail, nor had she seemed to notice it. yet she must have noticed it.
"dear george,—i am so glad. miss wheeler is going to her bootmaker's in conduit street to-morrow afternoon. she's always such a long time there. come and have tea with me at the new prosser's in regent street, four sharp. i shall have half an hour.—l.i."
in his heart he pretended to jeer at this letter. he said it was 'like' lois. she calmly assumed that at a sign from her he, a busy man, would arrange to be free in the middle of the afternoon! doubtless the letter was the consequence of putting '3.30 a.m.' on his own letter. what could a fellow expect?...
all pretence! in reality the letter flattered and excited him. he thought upon the necktie he would wear.
by the same post arrived a small parcel: it contained a ring, a few other bits of jewellery, and all the letters and notes that he had ever written or scribbled to marguerite. he did not want the jewellery back; he did not want the letters back. to receive them somehow humiliated him. surely she might have omitted this nauseous conventionality! she was so exasperatingly conscientious. her neat, clerk-like calligraphy, on the label of the parcel, exasperated him. she had carefully kept every scrap of a missive from him. he hated to look at the letters. what could he do with them except rip them up? and the miserable trinkets—which she had worn, which had been part of her? as for him, he had not kept all her letters—not by any means. there might be a few, lying about in drawers. he would have to collect and return them. odious job! and he could not ask anybody else to do it for him.
he was obliged to question lucas about the regent street prosser's, of which, regrettably, he had never heard. he did not, in so many words, request john orgreave for the favour of an hour off. he was now out of his articles, though still by the force of inertia at the office, and therefore he informed john orgreave that unless mr. john had any objection he proposed to take an hour off. mr. enwright was not in. lucas knew vaguely of the rendezvous, having somewhere met laurencine.
from the outside prosser's was not distinguishable from any other part of regent street. but george could not mistake it, because miss wheeler's car was drawn up in front of the establishment, and lois was waiting for him therein. strange procedure! she smiled and then frowned, and got out sternly. she said scarcely anything, and he found that he could make only such silly remarks as: "hope i'm not late, am i?"
the new prosser's was a grandiose by-product of chocolate. the firm had taken the leading ideas of the chief tea-shop companies catering for the million in hundreds of establishments arranged according to pattern, and elaborated them with what is called in its advertisements 'cachet.' its prices were not as cheap as those of the popular houses, but they could not be called dear. george and lois pushed through a crowded lane of chocolate and confectionery, past a staircase which bore a large notice: "please keep to the right." this notice was needed. they came at length to the main hall, under a dome, with a gallery between the dome and the ground. the floor was carpeted. the multitudinous small tables had cloths, flowers, silver, and menus knotted with red satin ribbon. the place was full of people, people seated at the tables and people walking about. above the rail of the gallery could be seen the hats and heads of more people. people were entering all the time and leaving all the time. scores of waitresses, in pale green and white, moved to and fro like an alien and mercenary population. the heat, the stir, the hum, and the clatter were terrific. and from on high descended thin, strident music in a rapid and monotonous rhythm.
"no room!" said george, feeling that he had at last got into the true arena of the struggle for life.
" oh yes!" said lois, with superior confidence.
she bore mercilessly across the floor. round the edge of the huge room, beneath the gallery, were a number of little alcoves framed in fretted moorish arches of white-enamelled wood. three persons were just emerging from one of these. she sprang within, and sank into a wicker arm-chair.
"there is always a table," she breathed, surveying the whole scene with a smile of conquest.
george sat down opposite to her with his back to the hall; he could survey nothing but lois, and the world of the mirror behind her.
"that's one of father's maxims," she said.
"what is?"
"'there is always a table.' well, you know, there always is."
"he must be a very wise man."
"he is."
"what's his special line?"
she exclaimed:
"don't you know father? hasn't miss wheeler told you? or mrs. orgreave?"
"no."
"but you must know father. father's 'parisian' in the sunday journal ."
despite the mention of this ancient and very dignified newspaper, george felt a sense of disappointment. he had little esteem for journalists, whom mr. enwright was continually scoffing at, and whom he imagined to be all poor. he had conceived mr. ingram as perhaps a rich cosmopolitan financier, or a rich idler—but at any rate rich, whatever he might be.
"of course he does lots of other work besides that. he writes for the pall mall gazette and the st. james's gazette. in fact it's his proud boast that he writes for all the gazettes, and he's the only man who does. that's because he's so liked. everybody adores him. i adore him myself. he's a great pal of mine. but he's very strict."
"strict?"
"yes," she insisted, rather defensively. "why not? i should like a strawberry ice, and a lemon-squash, and a millefeuille cake. don't be alarmed, please. i'm a cave-woman. you've got to get used to it."
"what's a cave-woman?"
"it's something primitive. you must come over to paris. if father likes you, he'll take you to one of the weekly lunches of the anglo-american press circle. he always does that when he likes anyone. he's the treasurer.... haven't you got any millefeuille cakes?" she demanded of the waitress, who had come to renew the table and had deposited a basket of various cakes.
"i'm afraid we haven't, miss," answered the waitress, not comprehending the strange word any better than george did.
"bit rowdy, isn't it?" george observed, looking round, when the waitress had gone.
lois said with earnestness:
"i simply love these big, noisy places. they make me feel alive."
he looked at her. she was very well dressed—more stylistic than any girl that he could see in the mirror. he could not be sure whether or not her yellow eyes had a slight cast; if they had, it was so slight as to be almost imperceptible. there was no trace of diffidence in them; they commanded. she was not a girl whom you could masculinely protect. on the contrary, she would protect not only herself but others.
"haven't you cream?" she curtly challenged the waitress, arriving with ice, lemon-squash, and george's tea.
the alien mercenary met her glance inimically for a second, and then, shutting her lips together, walked off with the milk. at prosser's the waitresses did not wear caps, and were, in theory, ladies. lois would have none of the theory; the waitress was ready to die for it and carried it away with her intact. george preferred milk to cream, but he said nothing.
"yes," lois went on. "you ought to come to paris. you have been, haven't you? i remember you told me. we're supposed to go back next week, but if irene doesn't go, i shan't." she frowned.
george said that positively he would come to paris.
when they had fairly begun the rich, barbaric meal, lois asked abruptly:
"why did you write in the middle of the night?"
sometimes her voice was veiled.
"why did i write in the middle of the night? because i thought i would." he spoke masterfully. he didn't mean to stand any of her cheek.
"oh!" she laughed nicely. " i didn't mind. i liked it— awfully. it was just the sort of thing i should have done myself. but you might tell me all about it. i think i deserve that much, don't you?"
thus he told her all about it—how he had arranged everything, got a room, meant to have his name painted on the door, meant to make his parents take their holiday on the north-east coast for a change, so that he could study the site, meant to work like a hundred devils, etc. he saw with satisfaction that the arrogant, wilful creature was impressed.
she said:
"now listen to me. you'll win that competition."
"i shan't," he said. "but it's worth trying, for the experience—that's what enwright says."
she said:
"i don't care a fig what enwright says. you'll win that competition. i'm always right when i sort of feel—you know."
for the moment he believed in the miraculous, inexplicable intuitions of women.
"oh!" she cried, as the invisible orchestra started a new tune. "do you know that? it's the first time i've heard it in london. it's the machiche . it's all over paris. i think it's the most wonderful tune in the world." her body swayed; her foot tapped.
george listened. yes, it was a maddening tune.
"it is," he agreed eagerly.
she cried:
"oh! i do love pleasure! and success! and money! don't you?"
her eyes had softened; they were liquid with yearning; but there was something frankly sensual in them. this quality, swiftly revealed, attracted george intensely for an instant.
immediately afterwards she asked the time, and said she must go.
"i daren't keep irene waiting," she said. her eyes now had a hard glitter.
in full regent street he put the haughty girl into irene's automobile, which had turned round; he was proud to be seen in the act; he privately enjoyed the glances of common, unsuccessful persons. as he walked away he smiled to himself, to hide from himself his own nervous excitement. she was a handful, she was. within her life burned and blazed. he remembered mr. prince's remark: "you must have made a considerable impression on her," or words to that effect. the startling thought visited him: "i shall marry that woman." then another thought: "not if i know it! i don't like her. i do not like her. i don't like her eyes."
she had, however, tremendously intensified in him the desire for success. he hurried off to work. the days passed too slowly, and yet they were too short for his task. he could not wait for the fullness of time. his life had become a breathless race. "i shall win. i can't possibly win. the thing's idiotic. i might.... enwright's rather struck." yes, it was mr. enwright's attitude that inspired him. to have impressed mr. enwright—by jove, it was something!
