25
The night was vast with all the other things. No need to sleep. To lie happy and strong in the sense of them was better than sleep. In a few hours the little suburban day would come ... everything gleaming with the light of the big things beyond. One could go through it in a drowse of strength, full of laughter ... laughter to the brim, all one’s limbs strong and heavy with laughter.
Bob Greville had gone jingling down the road in a hansom—grey holland blinds and a pink rosebud in the driver’s buttonhole. Why had he come? Going in and out of the weddings a pale grey white-spatted guest, talking to everyone ... a preoccupied piece of the West End. Large club windows looking out on sunlit Piccadilly; a glimpse of the haze of the Green Park. Weddings must be laughable to him with his “Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures” ideas. His wife was dead. She had been fearfully ill suddenly on their wedding tour ... at “Lawzanne.” That was the wrong way to pronounce Lausanne. And that wrong way of pronouncing was somehow part of his way of thinking about her. He seemed to remember nothing but her getting ill and spoke with a sort of laughing, contemptuous fear. Men.
But in some way he was connected with that strange thing outside the everyday things.