It was after six o’clock by the time Mr. Ryder and Miss Cartright left Goode’s on Christmas Eve; they were among the last few to leave the great edifice and a lackey waited by the Staff Entrance with a bunch of enormous keys, ready to lock the door.
A Jowett Javelin was double-parked by the kerb and Miss Cartright turned to her colleague. “There’s my young man,” she said. “Can we offer you a lift? We’re headed for Turramurra.”
“Now that is very good of you,” said Mr. Ryder, “but I’m meeting some friends at Pfahlert’s for our annual get-together. Old schoolmates.”
“Enjoy yourself then,” said Miss Cartright, “and have a very happy Christmas.”
“And you too, Miss Cartright,” said Mr. Ryder, raising his hat as she stepped into the impatient automobile.
He walked along Castlereagh Street through the now-diminishing throng and turned into the vastness of Martin Place. He had a fancy (who does not?) to walk along the GPO colonnade, and a moment after he had ascended the steps and begun his progress he realised that the figure at the nether end putting a letter through one of the fine brass-clad posting slots was their own Miss Jacobs. Strange time to post a letter, he thought. She’s missed the Christmas post by several lengths. And there was something so sad about the picture she made—that lone, dumpy, self-contained figure, with her hair in a bun, with her half-empty string bag, posting her mysterious letter—that he almost wanted to run down the colonnade and catch her up, and then—well, it was futile. He could hardly hope to gladden what appeared to be such a lonely and indeed secret existence—he could hardly, for instance, offer her a drink. An ice-cream, perhaps. “Would you care to accompany me to Cahill’s, Miss Jacobs? We might have a Chocolate Snowball together.” Then he remembered Pfahlert’s. Well, not tonight, he thought. But perhaps one day. Oh, Miss Jacobs. You poor, poor dear. Have a very happy Christmas.