stockily in the gangway
like a man who does not know what is expected of him. It was ridiculous,
but it was true that he became ashamed.

But he held his ground stubbornly. He was not aware of any definite plan
or expectation. If he had asked himself what he intended he would have
said he meant to look after Cosgrave, who was in a bad way. As a friend
and as a doctor he had the right. He would not have admitted that his
own personality had become involved, that he had felt himself obscurely
challenged.

Then he saw Cosgrave. He saw him before his companion, though for
everyone else she obscured him utterly. She walked a few steps ahead, a
bizarre, fantastic figure, her fair head with its deep band of diamonds
lifted audaciously, the same fixed smile of childish expectancy on her
oval, painted face. Her dress had left vulgarity behind. It was too
much a part of herself--in its way too genuine--to be merely laughable.
It was like her execrable dancing, the expression of an exuberant,
inexhaustible life. As she walked, with short impatient steps, she
swayed the great ostrich-feather fan and twisted her rope of pearls
between her slender fingers. The open stare that greeted her seemed to
amuse and please her.

And Cosgrave. Saville Row, Stonehouse reflected rapidly and
contemptuously, must have been bribed to have turned out such perfection
at such short notice. Too much perfection and too new. An upstart young
rake. No, not quite that, either. Pain had lent an elusive beauty to
the plain and freckled face, and happiness had made it lovable. It was
obvious that he was trying to suppress his pride and astonishment at
himself and not succeeding. The corners of his mouth quivered shyly and
self-consciously, and the wide-open eyes were fixed with an engaging
steadfastness on the figure in front of him as though he knew that if he
looked to the right or left he would give himself away altogether.
Stonehouse could almost hear his voice, high-pitched and boyish.

"Oh, I say, Robert, isn't it wonderful--isn't she splendid?"

Stonehouse himself stood right across their path. It was accidental, and
now he could not move. He had grown to rely too much on his emotional
inaccessibility, and the violence and suddenness of his anger transfixed
him. This woman had trapped Cosgrave. She had caught him in the
dangerous moment of convalescence--in that rebound from inertia which
carries men to an excess incredible