young man like birds. If only he
could talk like this, he would have caught the world. Oh, to acquire
culture! Oh, to pronounce foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well
informed, discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady started! But
it would take one years. With an hour at lunch and a few shattered hours
in the evening, how was it possible to catch up with leisured women,
who had been reading steadily from childhood? His brain might be full
of names, he might have even heard of Monet and Debussy; the trouble
was that he could not string them together into a sentence, he could not
make them "tell," he could not quite forget about his stolen umbrella.
Yes, the umbrella was the real trouble. Behind Monet and Debussy the
umbrella persisted, with the steady beat of a drum. "I suppose my
umbrella will be all right," he was thinking. "I don't really mind about
it. I will think about music instead. I suppose my umbrella will be all
right." Earlier in the afternoon he had worried about seats. Ought he
to have paid as much as two shillings? Earlier still he had wondered,
"Shall I try to do without a programme?" There had always been something
to worry him ever since he could remember, always something that
distracted him in the pursuit of beauty. For he did pursue beauty, and,
therefore, Margaret's speeches did flutter away from him like birds.

Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying, "Don't you think so? don't
you feel the same?" And once she stopped, and said, "Oh, do interrupt
me!" which terrified him. She did not attract him, though she filled him
with awe. Her figure was meagre, her face seemed all teeth and eyes, her
references to her sister and her brother were uncharitable. For all
her cleverness and culture, she was probably one of those soulless,
atheistical women who have been so shown up by Miss Corelli. It was
surprising (and alarming) that she should suddenly say, "I do hope that
you'll come in and have some tea. We should be so glad. I have dragged
you so far out of your way."

They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had set, and the backwater,
in deep shadow, was filling with a gentle haze. To the right the
fantastic sky-line of the flats towered black against the hues of
evening; to the left the older houses raised a square-cut, irregular
parapet against the grey. Margaret fumbled for her latch-key. Of course
she had forgotten it. So, grasping her umbrella by its ferrule, she
leant over the area an