"I've a matinée this afternoon. There is a woman downstairs who will come in."
She looked up at him with eyes of weariness.
"And you?"
"I'll come round later in the day."
"I may be out."
She stood up, holding the baby.
"And to-morrow? Where's my hat?"
She found him his hat.
"I shall be in most of to-morrow."
He was aware of the fact that her steady gaze had a meaning for him, and that her brown eyes were softly blurred. She was very tired.
"Right. Get someone in and go to bed. You want sleep."
"I do."
He turned for a moment at the top of the stairs to see her standing in the open doorway, vaguely smiling, her head surrounded by a haze of light, and ten seconds later he was in Orange Court, gripping the handle of the bag very hard, and walking fast. The liveness of London astonished him. He was thinking of the emptiness and the silence, and of Mary standing in the middle of Oxford Street with that flower-like floating face of hers.
A hot bath was welcome. He splashed about in it,—and emerging, towelled himself vigorously.
"Suppose she lives on buns and tea."
Well,—what was it to do with him?
At breakfast, in the college dining-room he was absorbed and surly, eating fiercely, and in no mood for small talk. Potter, a confrère, was devouring buttered toast and marmalade on the other side of the table.
"Been out all night?"
"Pretty well."
"Thought you looked a bit cheap."
It occurred to Kit that he might ask Potter to take over the case, but the idea roused in him a fierce surge of hostility. He did not like Potter; Potter was considered to be a very debonair and dangerous lad, a fellow who smirked and looked at himself in shop windows. Was he going to send Potter to Mary Jewett?
"No,—I'm damned if I will!"
