beast, a selfish cad. But it shan't happen again. I'll come often—I'm ashamed.”
She cried for a little and then she smiled at him. “I'm a fool to cry like that but you see I'm weak and ill—and seeing you again after all this time and your being so successful and happy upset me I suppose. Forgive it, Peter, and come again one day when I'm better and stronger—and bring Clare too.”
She held tightly to his hand and her grasp was hot and feverish. He reassured her, told her that he would come soon again, that he would bring Clare and so left her.
He took a cab and drove back to Chelsea in a storm of agitation. Suddenly, out of nothing as it were, all these people, this old life had been thrust up in front of him—had demanded, made claims. About him once again was the old atmosphere: figures were filling his brain, the world was a wild tossing place . . . one of those Roundabouts with the hissing lights, the screaming music, the horses going up and down. Plain enough now that the old life was not done with. Every moment of his past life seemed to spring before him claiming recognition. He was drunk with the desire for work. He flung the cabman something, dashed into the little house, was in his room. The lamp was lighted, the door was shut, there was silence, and in his brain figures, scenes, sentences were racing—“The Stone House,” neglected for so long, had begun once more, to climb.
The hours passed, the white sheets were covered and flung aside. Dimly through a haze, he saw Clare standing in the doorway.
“Bad old boy!”
He scarcely glanced up. “I'm not coming yet—caught by work.”
“Don't be at it too late.”
He made no reply.
She closed the door softly behind her.
