V

When Christopher got to Hertford Street Catherine wasn’t ready because he was earlier than he had said he would be; but Mrs. Mitcham opened the door, wide and welcomingly this time, and looked pleased to see him and showed him at once into the drawing-room, saying her mistress would not be long.

The fire had been allowed to go out, and the room was so cold that his roses were still almost as much in bud as ever. People had been there that afternoon, he saw; the chairs were untidy, and there were cigarette ashes. Well, not one of them was taking her out to dinner. They might call, but he took her out to dinner.

Directly she came in he noticed she had a different hat on. It was a very pretty hat, much prettier than the other one. Was it possible she had put it on for him? Yet for whom else? Absorbed in the entrancingness of this thought he had the utmost difficulty in saying how do you do properly. He stared very hard, and gripped her hand very tight, and for a moment didn’t say anything. And round her shoulders was the white fox thing he had held to his face the other day; and her little shoes–well, he had better not look at them.

“This is great fun,” she said as he gripped her hand, and she successfully hid the agony caused by her fingers and her rings being crushed together.

“It’s heaven,” said Christopher.

“No, no, that’s not nearly such fun as–just fun,” she said, furtively rubbing her released hand and making a note in her mind not to wear rings next time her strong young friend was likely to say how do you do.

The pain had sent the blood flying up into her face. Christopher gazed at her. Surely she was blushing? Surely she was no longer so self-possessed and sure? Was it possible she was beginning to be shy? It gave him an extraordinary happiness to think so, and she, looking at him standing there with such a joyful face, couldn’t but catch and reflect some at least of his light.

She laughed. It really was fun. It made her feel so young, frolicking off like this with a great delighted boy. He was such an interesting, unusual boy, full of such violent enthusiasms. She wished he need never grow older. How charming to be as young and absurd as that, she thought, laughing up at the creature. One never noticed how delightful youth was till one’s own had finished. Well, she was going to be young for this one evening. He treated her as if she were; did he really think it? It was difficult to believe, yet still more difficult not to believe when one watched his face as he said all the things he did say. How amusing, how amusing. She had been solemn for so long, cloistered in duties for such years; and here all of a sudden was somebody behaving as if she were twenty. It made her feel twenty; feel, anyhow, of his own age. What fun. For one evening….

She laughed gaily. (No, he thought, she wasn’t shy. She was as secure as ever, and as sure of her little darling self. He must have dreamed that blush.) “Where are we going?” she asked. “I haven’t been to a restaurant for ages. Though I’m not sure we wouldn’t have been happier at The Immortal Hour.”

“I am,” said Christopher. “Quite sure. Don’t you know we’ve got marvellous things to say to each other?”

“I didn’t,” she said, “but I daresay some may come into my head as we go along. Shall we start? Help me into my coat.”

“What a jolly thing,” he said, wrapping her in it with joyful care. He knew nothing about women’s clothes, but he did feel that this was wonderful–so soft, so light, and yet altogether made of fur.

“It’s a relic,” she said, “of past splendour. I used to be well off. Up to quite a little while ago. And things like this have lapped over.”

“I want to know all about everything,” he said.

“I’ll tell you anything you ask,” she answered. “But you must promise to like it,” she added, smiling.

“Why? Why shouldn’t I like it?” he asked quickly, his face changing. “You’re not–you’re not going to be married?”

“Oh–don’t be silly. There. I’m ready. Shall we go down?”

“I suppose you insist on walking down?”

“We can go in the lift if you like,” she said, pausing surprised, “but it’s only one floor.”

“I want to carry you.”

“Oh–don’t be silly,” she said again, this time with a faint impatience. The evening wouldn’t be at all amusing if he were going to be silly, seriously silly. And if he began already might he not grow worse? George, she remembered, used to be quite different after dinner from what he was before dinner. Always kind, after dinner he became more than kind. But he was her husband. One bore it. She had no wish for more than kindness from anybody else. Besides, whatever one might pretend for a moment, one wasn’t twenty, and one naturally didn’t want to be ridiculous.

She walked out of the flat thoughtfully. Perhaps she had better begin nipping his effusiveness in the bud a little harder, whenever it cropped up. She had nipped, but evidently not hard enough. Perhaps the simplest way–and indeed all his buds would be then nipped for ever at once–would be to tell him at dinner about Virginia. If seeing her as he had now done in full daylight hadn’t removed his misconceptions, being told about Virginia certainly would. Only–she hadn’t wanted to yet; she had wanted for this one evening to enjoy the queer, sweet, forgotten feeling of being young again, of being supposed to be young; which really, if one felt as young as she quite often very nearly did, amounted to the same thing.

“You’re not angry with me?” he said, catching her up, having been delayed on the stairs by Mrs. Mitcham who had pursued him with his forgotten coat.

She smiled. “No, of course not,” she said; and for a moment she forgot his misconceptions, and patted his arm reassuringly, because he looked so anxious. “You’re giving me a lovely treat. We’re going to enjoy our evening thoroughly,” she said.

“And what are you giving me?” he said–how adorable of her to pat him; and yet, and yet–if she had been shy she wouldn’t have. “Aren’t you giving me the happiest evening of my whole life?”

“Oh,” she said, shaking her head, “we mustn’t talk on different levels. When I say something ordinary you mustn’t answer”–she laughed–“with a shout. If you do, the conversation will be trying.”

“But how can I help what you call shouting when I’m with you at last, after having starved, starved–”

“Oh,” she interrupted quickly, putting her hands up to her ears, “you wouldn’t like it, would you, if I went deaf?”

He must go slower. He knew he must. But how go slower? He must hold on to himself tightly. But how? How? And in another minute they would be shut up close and alone in one of those infernal taxis…. Perhaps they had better go by tube; yet that seemed a poor way of taking a woman out to dinner. No, he couldn’t possibly do that. Better risk the taxi, and practise self-control.

“You know,” she said when they were in it–fortunately it was a very fast one and would soon get there–“only a few days ago you used to sit at The Immortal Hour all quiet and good, and never say anything except intelligent things about Celts. Now you don’t mention Celts, and don’t seem a bit really intelligent. What has happened to you?”

“You have,” he said.

“That can’t be true,” she reasoned, “for I haven’t seen you for nearly a week.”

“That’s why,” he said. “But look here, I don’t want to say things that’ll make you stop your ears up again, and I certainly shall if we don’t talk about something quite–neutral.”

“Well, let’s. What is neutral enough?” she smiled.

“I don’t believe there’s anything,” he said, thinking a moment. “There’s nothing that wouldn’t lead me back instantly to you. There’s nothing in the whole world that doesn’t make me think of you. Why, just the paving stones–you walked on them. Just the shop-windows–Catherine has looked into these. Just the streets–she has passed this way. Now don’t, don’t stop up your ears–please don’t. Do listen. You see, you fill the world–oh don’t put your fingers in your ears–”

“I wasn’t going to,” she said. “I was only just thinking that I believe I’m going to have a headache.”

“A headache?”

“One of my headaches.”

“Oh no–not really?”

He was aghast.

“You’ll be all right when you’ve had some food,” he said. “Are they bad? Do you get bad ones?”

“Perhaps if we don’t talk for a little while–” she murmured, shutting her eyes.

He went as dumb as a fish. His evening … it would be too awful if it were spoiled, if she had to go home….

She sat in her corner, her eyes tight shut.

He sat stiff in his, as if the least movement might shake the taxi and make her worse, stealing anxious looks at her from time to time.

She didn’t speak again, nor did he.

In this way they reached the restaurant, and as he helped her out, his alarmed eyes on her face, she smiled faintly at him and said she thought it was going to be all right. And to herself she said, “At dinner I’ll tell him about Virginia.”