out of this period of his career, humphrey rescued memories of moments of ineffable happiness. they came intermittently, between long blanks of doubt and painful uncertainty, when his mind was troubled with unsatisfied yearnings and half-understood desires. he was able one day to look back upon it all, with an air of detached interest, like a man looking at a cinematograph picture, and he saw meetings, and partings, and all the ferment of his wooing of lilian.

there was something intimate and secret about their meetings that pleased his palate, hungry for adventure, and this was a part of life that belonged wholly to them; he was indeed taking a part in the great game.

they met on the monday at the hour appointed, and it seemed extraordinarily unreal, like a dream within a dream, that she should be wonderfully alive and smiling by his side. fleet street, the office, rivers, and the long toil of the day were forgotten in a moment, such was the miracle of her being. it seemed impossible to him, on that day, that unhappiness and failure could darken his world. there was something eternal about her that moved him with strong, unquenchable desires for triumph and conquest. her voice vibrated through him like the throb of a war-march, urging him to great endeavour.

so commonplace their greeting; so utterly inadequate to express the prodigious flutterings of his heart! they should have met alone in some solitary forest, when all the colours of the world were rushing to the clouds, in the hours of the sunset. he could have led her to a resting-place of moss and fern,[124] and whispered to her all the thoughts that were in his mind....

but here in the world of everyday, what romance could survive the prosy clamour of it all. there was nothing to say but "good-morning," and halting, nervous things about the weather, and the theatre, and each other's work. anything of deeper import must be told by sighs and silences.

and thus, they parted again, after their lunch in a dingy italian restaurant in the strand, he with all his longings unfulfilled, and with a deeper sense of something that had been lacking in his life. why could he not have told her all that he had felt? why was it necessary for him to mask and screen his emotions with absurd talk that only seemed to waste precious opportunities? she rose before him in his imagination, amazingly distinct and real, no longer a shadow, but a real person. he conjured her presence at will before him, and she appeared as he liked to see her best, with her eyes grey and thoughtful, and the sunlight gilding her hair where it swept up from her white brow. thus, when she was not there, he lived with her, and told her all the things he dared not say to her.

and nobody knew of these exquisite moments but himself. to mention her to beaver, now, would be sacrilege. there was but one man who, he thought, would understand what was passing through him, and that was wratten, who was away on his honeymoon.

they met several times during the next few weeks; it seemed to him that she would not consent to meet him if her heart did not echo his own. and yet, she gave no sign. there was always an air of chastened constraint about them both. he helped her adjust her fluffy feather boa once, and his hand brushed her cheek, and he remembered the feel of it, smooth and soft, like the touch of the downy skin of a peach.

[125]

all the time, of course, in the intervals of these meetings, there was the same breathless round of work to be done. sometimes he would have to cancel their arrangements because he was given an assignment just at the very hour they had set apart for themselves—it was done by a hurried scrawl on office paper—"dear miss filmer, i'm so sorry," and so forth. once he had written "dearest," but he tore it up, fearing he might lose her for ever. he could not risk offending her. he knew that she was rigorously strict in certain conventions.

"i say ... may i call you lilian?" he had asked one day, and she had glanced at him with a stricken look, and said, "oh—please, please don't, mr quain." she had even laid her hand upon his, with a persuasive gesture. it was a distinct pat—the sort of pat one bestows when a child is to be coaxed into goodness.

she was very perplexing.

her manner could alter in the most unexpected and unaccountable manner. one day she might be quite gay, and he would feel that now it was merely a question of moments before he could storm her heart and carry it: and the next time he saw her she would be strangely distant, as though she regretted the progress they had made. or else, she would be provokingly casual, and wound him deliberately in his weakest spot. she would call him a boy, with a little smile and play of the eyebrows. ah! that rankled more than anything she said or did, for the whole happiness of his life depended on his being taken seriously, and at his own valuation—and he valued himself as a man of the world, with the experience of double his years.

it was, perhaps, this attitude of hers towards him that made him tell her of his work, which, in these days, became so magnified in importance to him. when by virtue of the day he got behind the scenes of any phase of london life, he used to make a point of[126] telling her just how it was done, in a rather cock-a-whoop manner.

"do you know," she said, "we have in our office thirty men who are doing the same thing, and, in all london, there are hundreds more?"

that crushed him entirely. she thought him vain. they very nearly quarrelled seriously.

one day jamieson, the dramatic critic of the day, met him in the office. jamieson was a tubby little man with a high shakespearean forehead, who exuded cheeriness. he was a professional optimist. he used to depress the reporters' room with his boisterous happiness: he was so glad that the flowers were blooming, and the grass was green, and that there were children, and the joy of life, and so forth.

he accosted humphrey with twinkling eyes. "glorious day, quain," he said; "makes you feel glad that you're alive, doesn't it? ah! my boy, it's fine to see the streets on a day like this—full of pretty girls in their spring dresses."

"i don't get time to think about the weather, unless i'm writing about it," said humphrey, with a laugh.

"buck up, my boy," said jamieson, patting him on the back. "you want to look on the bright side of things on a day like this.... by the way, would you like to have two stalls for the garrick to-morrow. it's the same old play they've had for two hundred nights—they only want a paragraph for the day. i've got a first night on at his majesty's."

humphrey accepted the tickets gladly, for he had a vision of an evening at the theatre with lilian, and jamieson went on his way, leaving in his wake a trail of chuckling optimism. it happened to be a saturday night, when he was quite free, and so he arranged with lilian to meet her at victoria—she lived at battersea park—and[127] then they would have some dinner before they went to the theatre.

in those days humphrey had not risen to the luxury of an opera hat; he wore a bowler hat, and his coat-collar buttoned up over the white tie of his evening-dress. he thrust his hands into his pockets and waited at victoria station for her. she was to meet him at a quarter to seven, and it was now five minutes to the hour and she had not come. he stood there, absolutely white with the tension of the passing moments. it seemed that he had been waiting an eternity, and he had lived through a thousand moments of disappointed expectation. others who had been waiting there when he came had long since claimed those whom they had come to meet, and walked them off with smiles and laughter. he was still waiting.

seven o'clock!

what on earth could have happened?

visions of possible disasters crossed his mind: a train wreck and a cab accident; or perhaps she was ill and was not coming. there would be no way of communicating with him, and he would have to go on waiting. or, perhaps, she had repented of her consent to make the evening glorious for him. the suspense was really terrible. there was nothing to do except to watch the newsboys cheerily gathering the magazines and papers together into piles, and shuttering the bookstall. he saw people running for trains, and whenever the hiss of steam announced the arrival of another train, he hurried to the wicket-gate to peer into the recesses of the crowd that struggled through it, in the hope of seeing her face a second before she actually appeared in person.

at five past seven he was still moodily waiting.

it was cruel of her to keep him dallying with patience like this. she must have known that he would be[128] waiting for her on the moment. how little she cared if she could not even be punctual to the time they had arranged. he began to feel stale and dusty, as if he had been in his evening-dress for years.

he made up his mind to be very angry with her when she came.

and lo! she was at his side: more wonderful than ever, so wonderful that he scarcely recognized her. she had come through the crowd at the wicket-gate, floating towards him, it seemed, like a cloud of filmy, fluffy white. her face was radiantly flushed and smiling, and he sprang towards her with a cry of relief and gladness.

"here i am," she announced. "i wondered if you'd be here." (as if he had not been waiting heart in mouth, for all that time.)

she wore no hat, but her hair was done in a way that he had never seen before. it seemed to change her strangely. if anything, it made her look more beautiful, as it rose in little waves from her forehead and fell about her ears in wayward threads of sparkling brown. and there was a black velvet ribbon that went in and out among the glory of her hair.

he slipped his hand beneath her white cloak that was fastened tightly to her chin, to guide her through the clumsy throng of station people. her arm was warm and bare, as soft as satin, and there was something sacred in the very touch of it.

it was an occasion for a cab. they chattered on the way of everyday things, though all the time, with her by his side, so close, so beautiful, he could only think of paradise.

"i thought you were never coming," he said, with a dry throat.

"was i so late?" she asked, with a laugh. "i couldn't help it. i ran like mad, and just saw the train going out of the station."

[129]

he wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked, but just then they arrived at the little restaurant in soho where they were going to have dinner. he went in with her, supremely conscious that every one was staring at them. there was a stuffy smell of hot food, and the tables were crowded with diners—very few of them in evening-dress. he was passed on from waiter to waiter until a table was found, and then lilian unfastened her white cloak, and he helped her to take it off, with a queer sensation of awe and wonder. she stood before him transformed, another lilian from the one he had known in the street where they worked. he was amazed that she did not realize how this white display of her neck and arms and gently breathing throat was dazzling him with its splendour. he was amazed that she could sit there, revealing her richest beauty for the first time, and be totally unembarrassed—as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world....

the dinner was no doubt excellent, but humphrey could not eat. he made a pretence of it, but he felt it was violating the ecstasy of these moments to eat before her. he only wanted to sit and look at her. he drank quite a lot of wine, almost a whole bottle in fact, for she took just half a glassful with water. it was cheap stuff, masquerading under the vague label of "margaux," and it sent his imagination rioting. he was conscious of being deliciously extravagant when he ordered coffees and liqueurs, though the whole bill came to little more than twelve and six. then they went to the theatre, and he bought her chocolates, and they sat in the stalls, side by side, for nearly three hours. he tried to appear normal—impossible! he knew what was coming: he fought against it for quite a long time, but some primeval instinct in him was stronger than his will—his hand sought hers, when the lights were low, and closed upon it. if she had withdrawn her hand, the whole castle of[130] his dream would have come crashing about his ears. but she did not: she let it rest there. once or twice he glanced at her sidewise, but she seemed oblivious of him. her gaze was fixed on the players, her lips parted with pleasure; the pendant that hung from her neck stirring gently with the movement of her bosom. she was enjoying the play, but humphrey could pay no attention to it. he could only think of her. how real was all this: how every moment counted as a moment of pure, throbbing enjoyment. and he thought of rivers, and the office, and selsey and the sub-editors' room, messenger boys and the tape machines—what did it all matter beside the incomparable happiness of these moments. knowledge came to him subconsciously: it was for this that one worked and suffered.

as they were going in the cab together to victoria through st. james's park, where the lamps make a necklet of yellow round the dark shadows of the trees, and the moon was white in her face, he leaned towards her and kissed her on the lips. she gave a little dry sob, and her head drooped on his shoulder, so that he could bend over her and kiss her with all the impetuous longing of youth. and suddenly she shook herself free with an extraordinary melting look of tenderness and pity in her eyes. he thought she was angry, but she only smiled and patted his cheek.

and he felt as if he had passed through the portals of a new world, whose music beat gloriously on his ears, and whose colours leapt before his eyes in flashes of brilliance.

"lilian.... lilian," he whispered, calling her by her name for the first time.

"it's only for to-night," she said.... "why did you kiss me?"

"lilian," he said again.

they came out into the glare of the streets near[131] victoria: romance dropped away from her as the park was left behind. she sat upright and fumbled with her hair.

"you oughtn't to have kissed me.... i oughtn't to have...."

the discussion of it was horrible to him. it jarred. he, too, came suddenly back to reality.

"it was only for to-night, of course," she said, with a nervous laugh.

"it's not!" he said, positively. "it's for to-morrow and for all time."

they drew up at the station. it was all over. the idyll ended in a clatter of horses' hoofs and hissing of steam, and engines whistling, and the hurrying to catch the last train.

"look here ..." said humphrey, as he stood by the carriage door.

"i'm not angry," she whispered. "it was my fault."

the guard blew his whistle and waved his flag. humphrey's heart was bursting with the hideous intrusion of modernity.

"good-night," she said. "good-night and thank you. it's been beautiful."

there was just a second left to him, and he made use of it. she was leaning out of the window, and he swung himself on to the footboard and whispered—

"lilian—i love you. i'll write to you to-night."

before she could reply, there were cries of "stand away there," and the train swung out of the station.

that night humphrey wrote his first love-letter, and told her all the things he had been wanting to say for weeks.