Part 15 (1/2)
”You told her about St. Joseph?”
”I said where I'd met you, in the Sardinia St. Chapel.” She smiled up at him incredulously. ”You didn't think I'd tell her that St. Joseph had introduced us, did you?”
”Why not? St. Joseph's a very proper man.”
”Yes--on his altar, but not in Kensington.”
”Well--what did she say?”
”She asked where you lived.”
”Oh----”
It is impossible to make comparison between Fetter Lane and Prince of Wales' Terrace without a face longer than is your wont--especially if it is you who live in Fetter Lane.
”And you told her you didn't know.”
”Of course.”
She said it so expectantly, so hopefully that he would divulge the terrible secret which meant so much to the continuation of their acquaintance.
”And what did she say to that?”
”She said, of course, that it was impossible for me to know you until you had come properly as a visitor to the house, and that she couldn't ask you until she knew where you lived. And I suppose that's quite right.”
”I suppose it is,” said John. ”At any rate you agree with her?”
”I suppose so.”
It meant she didn't. One never does the thing one supposes to be right; there's no satisfaction in it.
”Well--the Martyrs' Club will always find me.”
This was John's club; that club, to become a member of which, he had been despoiled of the amount of a whole year's rent. He was still staggering financially under the blow.
”Do you live there?” she asked.
”No--no one lives there. Members go to sleep there, but they never go to bed. There are no beds.”
”Then where do you live?”
He turned and looked full in her eyes. If she were to have sympathy, if she were to have confidence and understanding, it must be now.
”I can't tell you where I live,” said John.
The clock of St. Mary Abbot's chimed the hour of midday. He watched her face to see if she heard.
One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight nine--ten--eleven--twelve! She had not heard a single stroke of it, and they had been sitting there for an hour.
CHAPTER XV