Part 25 (1/2)
G.J. recognised Christine just beyond the knot of loiterers at the Piccadilly Tube. The improbable had happened. She was walking at what was for her a rather quick pace, purposeful and preoccupied. For an instant the recognition was not mutual; he liked the uninviting stare that she gave him as he stopped.
”It is thou?” she exclaimed, and her dimly-seen face softened suddenly into a delighted, adoring smile.
He was moved by the pa.s.sion which she still had for him. He felt vaguely and yet acutely an undischarged obligation in regard to her. It was the first time he had met her in such circ.u.mstances. A constraint fell between them. In five minutes she would have been in her Promenade engaged upon her highly technical business, displaying her attractions while appearing to protect herself within a virginal timidity (for this was her natural method). In any case, even had he not set forth on purpose to find her, he could scarcely have accompanied her to the doors of the theatre and there left her to the night's routine. They both hesitated, and then, without a word, he turned aside and she followed close, acquiescent by training and by instinct. Knowing his sure instinct for what was proper, she knew at once that hazard had saved her from the night's routine, and she was full of quiet triumph. He, of course, though absolutely loyal to her, had for dignity's sake to practise the duplicity of pretending to make up his mind what he should do.
They went through the Tube station and were soon in one of the withdrawn streets between Coventry Street and Pall Mall East. The episode had somehow the air of an adventure. He looked at her; the hat was possibly rather large, but, in truth, she was the image of refinement, delicacy, virtue, virtuous surrender. He thought it was marvellous that there should exist such a woman as she. And he thought how marvellous was the protective vastness of the town, beneath whose s.h.i.+eld he was free--free to live different lives simultaneously, to make his own laws, to maintain indefinitely exciting and delicious secrecies. Not half a mile off were Concepcion and Queen, and his amour was as safe from them as if he had hidden it in the depths of some hareemed Asiatic city.
Christine said politely:
”But I detain thee?”
”As for that,” he replied, ”what does that matter, after all?”
”Thou knowest,” she said in a new tone, ”I am all that is most worried. In this London they are never willing to leave you in peace.”
”What is it, my poor child?” he asked benevolently.
”They talk of closing the Promenade,” she answered.
”Never!” he murmured easily, rea.s.suringly.
He remembered the night years earlier when, as a protest against some restrictive action of a County Council, the theatre of varieties whose Promenade rivalled throughout the whole world even the Promenade of the Folies-Bergere, shut its doors and darkened its blazing facade, and the entire West End seemed to go into a kind of shocked mourning.
But the next night the theatre had reopened as usual and the Promenade had been packed. Close the Promenades! Absurd! Not the full bench of archbishops and bishops could close the Promenades! The thing was inconceivable, especially in war-time, when human nature was so human.
”But it is quite serious!” she cried. ”Everyone speaks of it.... What idiots! What frightful lack of imagination! And how unjust! What do they suppose we are going to do, we other women? Do they intend to put respectable women like me on to the pavement? It is a fantastic idea!
Fantastic!... And the night-clubs closing too!”
”There is always the other place.”
”The Ottoman? Do not speak to me of the Ottoman. Moreover, that also will be suppressed. They are all mad.” She gave a great sigh. ”Oh!
What a fool I was to leave Paris! After all, in Paris, they know what it is, life! However, I weary thee. Let us say no more about it.”
She controlled her agitation. The subject was excessively delicate, and that she should have expressed herself so violently on it showed the powerful reality of the emotion it had aroused in her.
Unquestionably the decency of her livelihood was at stake. She had convinced him of the peril. But what could he say? He could not say, ”Do not despair. You are indispensable; therefore you will not be dispensed with. These crises have often arisen before, and they always end in the same manner. And are there not the big hotels, the chic cinemas, certain restaurants? Not to mention the clientele which you must have made for yourself?” Such remarks were impossible. But not more impossible than the very basis of his relations with her. He was aware again of the weight of an undischarged obligation to her. His behaviour towards her had always been perfection, and yet was she not his creditor? He had a conscience, and it was illogical and extremely inconvenient.
At that moment a young man flew along the silent, shadowed street, and as he pa.s.sed them shouted somewhat hysterically the one word:
”Zepps!”
Christine clutched his arm. They stood still.
”Do not be frightened,” said G.J. with perfect tranquillity.
”But I hear guns,” she protested.
He, too, heard the distant sounds of guns, and it occurred to him that the sounds had begun earlier, while they were talking.
”I expect it's only anti-aircraft practice,” he replied. ”I seem to remember seeing a warning in the paper about there being practice one of these nights.”
Christine, increasing the pressure on his arm and apparently trying to drag him away, complained: