She looked at him out of the eyes of her photograph, and about her lips there still hovered that smile which had always been a riddle to him; a smile of indulgent love, or contempt? Who knows--a woman's smile is the secret of her sex. Yet now, it seemed, her lips were curved in triumph. This was her revenge on him, that he should go for ever loveless through the world, while she should steal into a haven of welcome peace.
Beaver's voice brought him back to physical things. She would kiss Beaver's shaggy-moustached lips, and his arms would catch her in an embrace.... How soon she had forgotten ... he thought, unreasonably.... She might have waited.... She might have understood....
"Well?" said Beaver, awaiting praise. "You've had a good old look."
"She's awfully nice and charming," Humphrey answered, returning the photograph. "She's like somebody I know."
"Oh, you've probably seen the original, old man, when you used to come and call for me. She used to be one of the girls in our office."
He had forgotten that lunch in the Fleet Street public-house, when Humphrey had asked for the name of the girl.
Used to be one of the girls in the office! Then Lilian had left. He wondered what she was doing, and an impulse that could not be withstood, compelled him to find out whether she had ever mentioned him to Beaver.
"By George!" he said. "I remember, now. Miss Filmer, her name was, wasn't it?"
"That's it, Miss Filmer. Did you ever speak to her, then?"
He was treading on uncertain ground. It was clear that she had never spoken of him. He felt that she had forgotten him, absolutely and completely.
"Oh, I think so--just casually, now and again."
"Well, I never!" said the innocent Beaver. "That's interesting. I'll tell her I met you."
"Oh, she wouldn't remember me or my name," Humphrey answered, hastily. "It was only just 'How-d'ye-do' and 'Good-day' with us.... So she's left the office now."
"Yes. It's rather a sad story. Her father died, you know. He was a chronic invalid--paralysis, I think. Anyhow, we don't speak of it much, and I've never pressed her. But the father who was so useless in life, has been the salvation of the mother by his death. Odd, isn't it? He was insured for a good round sum, and Lilian's mother--did I tell you her name was Lilian?--has bought a little annuity, so that Lilian's free. She used to slave for her mother and the rest of the family until they grew up. That's why she worked overtime at the office. 'Pon me soul, I'd rather be the lowest jackal in Fleet Street than some of these poor little typist girls at eighteen bob a week.... Well, time's up. I've got to be at the Mansion House at three: the Lord Mayor's taking the chair at some blooming meeting to raise a fund for something, somewhere. What are you doing to-day?"