May felt a pang of pity for him. His face showed signs of pain and discontent and restlessness.
"I shall leave Chartcote any day, immediately. London draws me back to it. I can think there. I can't at Chartcote, the atmosphere is sodden at Chartcote, my neighbours are clods."
May looked at him anxiously. "It is dull for you," she said.
Encouraged by this he went on rapidly. "Art, literature is nothing to them. They are centaurs. They ought to eat grass. They don't know a sunset from a swede. They don't know the name of a bird, except game birds; they are ignorant fools, they are damned----" Boreham's breathing was loud and rapid.
"And yet you hate Oxford," murmured May, as she held out her hand. She still did not mean Boreham to come inside the Court, her hand was a dismissal.
"Because Oxford is so smug," said Boreham. "And the country is smug. England is the land that begets effeteness and smuggishness. Yes, I should be pretty desperate," he added, and he held her hand with some pressure--"I should be pretty desperate, only you have promised to let me come and see you."
May withdrew her hand. "As a friend," she said. "Yes, come as a friend."
Boreham gave a curious toss to his head. "I am under your orders," he said, "I obey. You don't wish me to come with you to the door--I obey!"
"Thank you," said May, simply. "And if you are lonely, well, so am I. There are many lonely people in this world just now, and many, many lonely women!" She turned away and left him.
Boreham raced rather than walked away from the Lodgings towards the stables where he had put up his horse. He hardly knew what his thoughts were. He was more strangely moved than he had ever thought he could be. And how solitary he was! What permanent joy is there in the world, after all? There _is_ nothing permanent in life! It takes years to find that out--years--if you are well in health and full of vanity! But you do find it out--at last.
As he went headlong he came suddenly against an obstacle. Somebody caught him by the arm and slowed him down.
"Hullo, Boreham!" said Bingham. "Stop a moment!"
Boreham allowed himself to be fastened upon, and suffered Bingham's arm to rest on his, but he puffed with irritation. He felt like a poet who has been interrupted in a fit of inspiration.