the prospect and walked slowly towards
the exit. Then she had an idea. Maurice must have missed the 3.30 and
was coming by the next. There was another in half an hour, she found out
from a porter, but it came in to a platform on the opposite side of the
station. So she walked across and sat down to wait, less happily than
before, but, as the great hand climbed up towards the hour, with
increasing hopefulness.

Again the platform was blackened by emerging crowds. This time she took
up a position by the engine. A cold wave of unfamiliar faces swept past
her. Maurice had not arrived. It was useless to wait any longer.
Reluctantly she began to walk away, stopping sometimes to look back.
Maurice had not arrived. With throbbing nerves and sick heart Jenny
reached York Road and stood in a gray dream by the edge of the pavement.
A taxi drew up alongside, and she got in, telling the man to drive to
422 Grosvenor Road.

The river still sparkled, but Big Ben had struck four o'clock without
them sitting together in the studio. The taxi had a narrow escape from a
bad accident. Ordinarily Jenny would have been terrified; but now,
bitterly and profoundly careless, she accepted the jar of the brakes,
the volley of recriminations and the gaping of foot passengers with
remote equanimity. Notwithstanding her presentiment of the worst, as the
taxi reached the familiar line of houses by which she had so often
driven passionate, sleepy, mirthful, sometimes one of a jolly party,
sometimes alone with Maurice in ecstasies unparagoned, Jenny began to
tell herself that nothing was the matter, that when she arrived at the
studio he would be there. Perhaps, after all, he thought he had
mentioned another train: his post card in alteration of the date had not
confirmed the time. Already she was beginning to rail at herself for
being upset so easily, when the taxi stopped and Jenny alighted. She
let the man drive off before she rang. When he was out of sight she
pressed the studio bell three times so that Maurice should not think it
was "kids"; and ran down the steps and across the road looking up to the
top floor for the heartening wave. The windows were closed: they seemed
steely and ominous. She rang again, knowing it was useless; yet the bell
was often out of order. She peered over at the basement for a glimpse of
Mrs. Wadman. Hysterical by now, she rang the bells of other floors.
Nobody answered; not even Fuz was in. Wings of fire, alternating