As the meal proceeded the air of the little room became very hot and stuffy. The two ladies soon fell into a very absorbing conversation about a gentleman named Herbert whose salient features were that he had a double chin and was careless about keeping engagements. The conversation passed on then to other gentlemen, all of whom seemed in one way or another to have their faults and drawbacks, and to all of whom Mrs. Tenssen had been, according to Mrs. Armstrong, quite marvellously good and kind.
Here was an opportunity that any other man would have seized. He could but stare and gulp and stare again. The girl sat, her plate and cup pushed aside, her hands folded, looking before her as though into some mirror or crystal revealing to her the strangest vision--and as she looked unhappiness crept into her eyes, an unhappiness so genuine that she was quite unconscious of it.
"I say, don't . . . don't!" he whispered huskily.
"Don't what?" she asked. There was the merest suggestion of a foreign accent behind her words.
"Don't be miserable. I'll do anything--anything. I followed you here from Piccadilly. I heard her slapping you."
"Oh, I want to get away!" she whispered breathlessly. "Do you think I can?"
"You can if I help you," Henry answered. "How can I see you?"
Their whispers had been low, but the eager conversation at the other end of the table suddenly ceased.
"I'm afraid I must be going now," said Henry rising and facing Mrs. Tenssen. "It was very good of you to give me tea."
"Come again," said Mrs. Tenssen regarding him once more with that curiously fixed stare, a stare like a glass of water in which floated a wink, a threat, a cajoling, and an insult.
"We'll be glad to see you. Just take us as you find us. Come in the right way next time. There's a bell at the bottom of the stairs."
Mrs. Armstrong laughed her deep bass laugh.
He shook hands with the two women, shuddering once more at Mrs. Tenssen's boneless fingers. He turned to the girl. "Good-bye," he said. "I'll come again."
"Yes," she answered, not looking at him but at her mother at the other side of the table. The stairs were dark and smelt of fish and patchouli. He stumbled down them and let himself out into Peter Street. The evening was blue with a lovely stir in it as in running water. The booths were crowded, voices filled the air. He escaped into Shaftesbury Avenue as Hänsel and Gretel escaped from the witch's cottage. He was in love for the first time in his young, self-centred life. . . .