After spending the afternoons like this he would return, pulling hard against the stream, with a queer feeling of relief, dine heartily, and fall adreaming over his cigar. Each morning he awoke in an excited mood, devoured his letter if he had one, and sat down to write to her. These letters of his were the most amazing portion of that fortnight. They were remarkable for failing to express any single one of his real thoughts, but they were full of sentiments which were not what he was truly feeling; and when he set himself to analyse, he had such moments of delirium that he was scared, and shocked, and quite unable to write anything. He made the discovery that no two human beings ever tell each other what they really feel, except, perhaps, in situations with which he could not connect Antonia's ice-blue eyes and brilliant smile. All the world was too engaged in planning decency.
Absorbed by longings, he but vaguely realised the turmoil of Commemoration, which had gathered its hundreds for their annual cure of salmon mayonnaise and cheap champagne. In preparation for his visit to Holm Oaks he shaved his beard and had some clothes sent down from London. With them was forwarded a letter from Ferrand, which ran as follows:
IMPERIAL PEACOCK HOTEL, FOLKESTONE, June 20.
MY DEAR SIR, Forgive me for not having written to you before, but I have been so bothered that I have felt no taste for writing; when I have the time, I have some curious stories to tell you. Once again I have encountered that demon of misfortune which dogs my footsteps. Being occupied all day and nearly all night upon business which brings me a heap of worries and next to no profit, I have no chance to look after my things. Thieves have entered my room, stolen everything, and left me an empty box. I am once again almost without clothes, and know not where to turn to make that figure necessary for the fulfilment of my duties. You see, I am not lucky. Since coming to your country, the sole piece of fortune I have had was to tumble on a man like you.
Excuse me for not writing more at this moment. Hoping that you are in good health, and in affectionately pressing your hand, I am, Always your devoted LOUIS FERRAND.
Upon reading this letter Shelton had once more a sense of being exploited, of which he was ashamed; he sat down immediately and wrote the following reply:
BISHOPS HEAD HOTEL, OXFORD, June 25.
MY DEAR FERRAND, I am grieved to hear of your misfortunes. I was much hoping that you had made a better start. I enclose you Post Office Orders for four pounds. Always glad to hear from you.
Yours sincerely, RICHARD SHELTON.
He posted it with the satisfaction that a man feels who nobly shakes off his responsibilities.
Three days before July he met with one of those disturbing incidents which befall no persons who attend quietly to their, property and reputation.
The night was unbearably hot, and he had wandered out with his cigar;a woman came sidling up and spoke to him. He perceived her to be one of those made by men into mediums for their pleasure, to feel sympathy with whom was sentimental. Her face was flushed, her whisper hoarse; she had no attractions but the curves of a tawdry figure. Shelton was repelled by her proprietary tone, by her blowzy face, and by the scent of patchouli. Her touch on his arm startled him, sending a shiver through his marrow; he almost leaped aside, and walked the faster. But her breathing as she followed sounded laboured; it suddenly seemed pitiful that a woman should be panting after him like that.
"The least I can do," he thought, "is to speak to her." He stopped, and, with a mixture of hardness and compassion, said, "It 's impossible."In spite of her smile, he saw by her disappointed eyes that she accepted the impossibility.
"I 'm sorry," he said.
She muttered something. Shelton shook his head.
"I 'm sorry," he said once more. "Good.-night."The woman bit her lower lip.
"Good-night," she answered dully.
At the corner of the street he turned his head. The woman was hurrying uneasily; a policeman coming from behind had caught her by the arm.
His heart began to beat. "Heavens!" he thought, "what shall I do now?" His first impulse was to walk away, and think no more about it --to act, indeed, like any averagely decent man who did not care to be concerned in such affairs.
He retraced his steps, however, and halted half a dozen paces from their figures.
"Ask the gentleman! He spoke to me,"she was saying in her brassy voice, through the emphasis of which Shelton could detect her fear.
"That's all right," returned the policeman, "we know all about that.""You--police!" cried the woman tearfully; "I 've got to get my living, have n't I, the same as you?"Shelton hesitated, then, catching the expression in her frightened face, stepped forward. The policeman turned, and at the sight of his pale, heavy jowl, cut by the cheek-strap, and the bullying eyes, he felt both hate and fear, as if brought face to face with all that he despised and loathed, yet strangely dreaded. The cold certainty of law and order upholding the strong, treading underfoot the weak, the smug front of meanness that only the purest spirits may attack, seemed to be facing him. And the odd thing was, this man was only carrying out his duty. Shelton moistened his lips.
"You're not going to charge her?"
"Aren't I?" returned the policeman.
"Look here; constable, you 're making a mistake."The policeman took out his note-book.
