with him one of
those rapid looks of complete understanding that he had grown so accustomed
to and found so sustaining and helpful. She kissed him firmly and coolly,
almost casually. Just so she might kiss an aunt.

The train journey was cold and lonely. Nobody he knew was travelling up to
town. He bought a daily paper, but the headlines put him off. They were
nearly all about divorce cases. There was one about a man who had lived for
three years in the same house with his wife without speaking to her. Such
things were possible! He gazed out of the window. The wonderful day had no
charm for him. The feeling of autumn only further increased his sense of
the loss of youth, of the decay of romance. He nursed and nourished his
grievance. He desired that Mary should know what a wreck she had made of
his day, possibly of his life.

He was in no mood for work. He went up to his studio in Fitzroy Square and
muddled about with pens and ink. He had what he called a good tidy up, and
firmly and consistently threw away every relic of sentiment he had
foolishly preserved. At one o'clock, through habit and not because he was
hungry, he went out and had a lonely lunch at a small restaurant, sitting
at a marble-topped table which imparted to him something of its chill.
After that he loafed about looking at things till dusk. Dusk was quite
unbearable. He fled back to the studio, made up a stupendous fire, lit a
pipe and mused.

He decided not to go home that night. He felt hurt and ill-used. He would
stay in town and have a thoroughly good time. As the idea struck him he
looked round the studio. The corners were dismal and shadowy. Everything
not in the immediate circle of the fire looked grey and cheerless. His
easel, with a bit of drapery thrown across it, was like a spectre with
outstretched arms. It suggested despair. He could think of no one whom he
wanted to see. There wasn't a soul he knew whom he would not in this crisis
deliberately have avoided.

So he went to the Russian Ballet and was bored. He had been excited about
_Cleopatra_ the first time he had seen it; he now decided that it was a
great mistake to try to repeat emotional experiences.

He left hurriedly before the programme was half over. His feet took him
mechanically to Waterloo Station. He looked up a train. The 9.30 was due
out; he sprinted and caught it. The carriage he managed to get into was
empty and warm. He slept; he slept all the way, and it did him goo