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A clock struck the half-hour as he hastened into Berkeley Square. He had now no thought but for his beloved master; every interest in life had faded before that. He seemed to be with him there in the nursing home. He could watch it all, the summoning, the procession into the operating theatre, the calm, white-clad surgeon, the nurses, the anaesthetic. . . . His hand was on the Hill Street door bell. He hesitated, trembling. The street was so still in the misty autumn morning, a faint scent in the air of something burning, of tar, of fading leaves. A painted town, a painted sky and some figures in the foreground, breathlessly waiting.
"Well, then, I must tell you somethingsomething about myself. I never speak about the past to anybody. Of what importance can it be to anybody but myself? But if we are going to be friends you ought to know something of itand I'm going to tell you."
"Hungry!" he sprang to his feet. "Just lie there a minute and rest. Close your eyes. There! Lie back again! I'll have something ready in a moment."
The three sat there in silence. At last Millicent said:
"Two days back."
He remained therefore perfectly calm, simply scratching his hair and rubbing his bristly chin.
"When will you come?"
That evening was a strange one. The comedy of Old Masks to Hide a New Tragedy was played with the greatest success. A thoroughly English piece, played with all the best English restraint and fine discipline. Sir Charles Duncombe as the hero was altogether admirable, and Lady Bell-Hall as the heroine won, and indeed, deserved, rounds of applause. Lady Alicia Penrose as the Comic Guest played in her own inimitable style a part exactly suited to her talents. Minor r?les were suitably taken by Thomas Duncombe, Henry Trenchard and Miss Bella Smith as Florence, a Parlourmaid. . . .
Herbert Spencer looked at the letters in his hand, let them drop, glanced up.
She regarded Henry appreciatively. "He's a nice boy," she said to Mrs. Armstrong. "I like his face. I'm a terrible woman for first impressions, and deceived though I've been, I still believe in them."
"Well," she said in a strange little voice with a crack and a sob in it, "what is it?"
"No, you didn't mean that," said Millie. "What you meant was unless I marry. Well, you can make your mind easyI'm never going to marry. Never! I'm going to die an old maid."
They parted. After an evening of utter misery she wrote to him:
"Every Government is the worst that any country's ever had," said Duncombe. "However, I daresay you're right, Light-Johnson. Perhaps this is the end of the world. Who knows? And what does it matter if it is?"
Then there followed, as there always followed, the fight to return to him, not now reasoning nor recalling any definite fact or argument, but only, as it had been that first night, the impulse to return, to find him again, to be with him and near him at all possible cost or sacrifice.
"Thank heaven I am inaccurate," Henry went on. "It's awful being as accurate as you are. It dries up all your natural feelings. There never was a warm-blooded man yet who was really accurate. And it's the same with languages. Any one who's a really good linguist is inhuman."
He tried to take her hand. She moved back.
In a letter to Henry, Millie wrote:
"I don't think," he said, "that I will make you a very good secretary, not in the accepted sense. I know that I shall make mistakes and be clumsy and forgetful, but I will do my very best and you can trust me, andI am really not such a fool as I often look."