and now----

He lit a cigarette and sat down on the sofa, and the chief feeling in
his heart was a strange hope, a sort of funereal gladness. He would have
to go and see her at once, that very night; an excuse--no need to wait
in here--to wait--wait on the chance of her coming.

He got up and drank some whisky, then went back to the sofa and sat down
again.

'If she is not here by eight,' he thought, 'I will go round.'

Opposite was a full-length mirror, and he turned to the wall to avoid
it. There was fixed on his face a look of gloomy determination, as
though he were thinking, 'I'll show them all that I'm not beaten yet.'

At the click of a latch-key he scrambled off the sofa, and his face
resumed its mask. She came in as usual, dropped her opera cloak, and
stood before him with bare shoulders. Looking in her face, he wondered
if she knew.

"I thought I'd better come," she said. "I suppose you've had the same
charming present?"

George nodded. There was a minute's silence.

"It's really rather funny. I'm sorry for you, George."

George laughed too, but his laugh was different.

"I will do all I can," he said.

Mrs. Bellew came close to him.

"I've seen about the Kempton race. What shocking luck! I suppose you've
lost a lot. Poor boy! It never rains but it pours."

George looked down.

"That's all right; nothing matters when I have you."

He felt her arms fasten behind his neck, but they were cool as marble;
he met her eyes, and they were mocking and compassionate.

Their cab, wheeling into the main thoroughfare, joined in the race of
cabs flying as for life toward the East--past the Park, where the trees,
new-leafed, were swinging their skirts like ballet-dancers in the wind;
past the Stoics' and the other clubs, rattling, jingling, jostling for
the lead, shooting past omnibuses that looked cosy in the half-light
with their lamps and rows of figures solemnly opposed.

At Blafard's the tall dark young waiter took her cloak with reverential
fingers; the little wine-waiter smiled below the suffering in his eyes.
The same red-shaded lights fell on her arms and shoulders, the same
flowers of green and yellow grew bravely in the same blue vases. On the
menu were written the same dishes. The same idle eye peered through
the chink at the corner of the red blinds with its stare of apathetic
wonder.

Often during that dinner George looked at her face by stealth, and its
expression baffled him, so careless