d to myself how he would look as
I gradually dropped my assumed voice, and very slowly the almost
incredible truth began to dawn on him.

So charming was the idea that it was only with some reluctance I was
able to abandon it. I didn't want to waste George: he had to last me
at least three days, and I felt that if I went down there now, warmed
and exhilarated with wine and food, I should be almost certain to give
myself away. I had no intention of doing that until the last possible
moment. I still had a sort of faint irrational hope that by watching
George without betraying my identity, I might discover something which
would throw a little light on his behaviour to me.

But if I didn't go to Cheyne Walk, what was I to do? I put the
question to myself as I slowly lifted the glass of old brandy which
the waiter had set down in front of me, and before the fine spirit
touched my lips the answer had flashed into my mind. I would go and
see Tommy!

It was the perfect solution of the difficulty; and as I put down the
glass again I laughed softly in sheer happiness. The prospect of
interviewing Tommy without his recognizing me was only a degree less
attractive than the thought of a similar experience with George. I
knew that the mere sight of his velvet coat and his dear old burly
carcase would fill me with the most delightful emotions--emotions
which now, amongst all my one-time friends, he and perhaps poor little
Joyce would alone have the power to provoke. The others seemed to me
as dead as the past to which they belonged.

One thing I was determined on, and that was that I wouldn't give away
my secret. It would be difficult not to, for there were naturally a
hundred things I wanted to say to Tommy; but, however much I might be
tempted, I was resolved to play the game. It was not the thought of my
promise to McMurtrie (that sat very easily on my conscience), but the
possibility of getting Tommy himself into trouble. I knew that for me
he would run any risk in the world with the utmost cheerfulness, but
I had no intention of letting him do it. He had done more than enough
for me at the time of the trial.

I called for the waiter and paid my bill. It seemed absurdly cheap
for such a delightful evening, and I said as much to M. Gaultier, who
insisted on accompanying me to the door. He received the remark with a
protesting gesture of his hands.

"Most people," he said, "feed. Monsieur eats. To such we do not
wish to over