ou might mention to him that I called." With that he descended the
steps and climbed into his runabout.

"Turned away!" he thought. "Turned away from Terry's house!" Then his
mind went back to two months ago--the hopes he'd had, his meeting with
her at the station, his asking her father for her hand in marriage. It
was like the old front-line trench, when reenforcements had failed to
come up: there was nothing for it but to dig one's self in and stick it
out.

He had been shown the door with as little ceremony as an intruding
peddler.

VIII

From Terry's house he went to Mulberry Tree Court, but the route that he
chose was not direct. He drove all over the West End first, through
Oxford Street, Bond Street, Piccadilly; then back by way of Regent
Street, swinging to the left through Conduit Street, till he again
struck Bond Street. He doubled and redoubled on his tracks, moving among
crowds, feeling that he must hear the noise of crowds, yet seeing little
of the sights on which his eyes rested. It had been like this with him
before, after being in too close contact with calamity. It had been like
this in war-days, when he had returned on brief leaves out of monstrous
offensives to the appalling quiet of a normal world. He hadn't dared to
be alone. He had felt that his sanity depended on his rubbing shoulders
with people. He had been like a child in an empty house, leaning out of
a window to catch the stir of life along the pavements.

The gayety of the London season was at its height. Khaki was growing
rare. Signs of war had almost completely vanished. No one wanted to talk
about it. No one wanted to read about it. Shops had redecorated their
windows with the necessities and luxuries of civilian requirements.
There was a wave of spendthrift extravagance abroad. Every one in the
streets had the look of being out for a good time. The threat of
torturing to-morrows no longer made life haggard. If there was one
lesson that the past five years had taught it was that each new day was
a gift from the gods, to be enjoyed separately and drained of every
available drop of pleasure. The restraints of duty were indefinitely
postponed. Men and women sauntered in pairs, aimlessly and joyously.
Work was the bondage furthest from their thoughts. They seemed aware of
no one but themselves in their ecstasy at being reunited. Racing had
been restarted; up and down the gutters newsboys ran shouting the
winners. London was a Tommy on