XVI
It was about a fortnight later that I went to Hugo’s room in Clifford’s Inn and found him out.
We were going to Richmond that afternoon, the Addingtons and Hugo and I, for a walk. I was to pick up Hugo first, and then we were to go on to the Addingtons in Chelsea.
When I got there, Hugo was out. Guy opened the door, and I thought he looked sorry.
He said:
‘He went off with Sophia to a Strindberg play. Did he know you were going to come?’
I said:
‘Yes, he knew—but I suppose he forgot. It doesn’t matter.’
We both stood still for a minute. I wanted to say something else, but I couldn’t think of anything to say.
Guy said:
‘Come along in.’
And I said:
‘No, I can’t. George and Mollie will be waiting.’
I wanted to say: ‘Don’t tell Hugo I came,’ but I couldn’t say it.
Guy said:
‘I’ll tell Hugo you came, I’ll blow him up.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t bother. It’s all right.’
Guy said:
‘I wish I could come, but I’ve got to finish this stuff.’
He nodded his head towards his room and the table spread with papers. It was a joke with us now that Guy was working hard.
I said:
‘I wish you could. Come next Saturday.’
He said:
‘Yes, next Saturday I can. But we’ll meet before that.’
‘Oh yes, lots of times. Good-bye.’
I turned down the stairs. I was glad to get away. It hurt me that Hugo should have gone out and forgotten—it had never happened before.
When I got to the Addingtons’ flat, Mollie was upstairs.
George was reading by the fire, with his back to the door.
He looked round and took his pipe out of his mouth.
‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘Where’s Hugo?’
‘Hugo had gone out to a play with Sophia.’
I pulled off my gloves and sat down in the other chair.
‘Strindberg,’ I said. ‘I don’t like Strindberg.’
George bent forward, and tapped his pipe out on the hob.
‘Nor do I,’ he said.
I had chilblains on my fingers. It was cold that afternoon, and raw, and they tingled and hurt. It was partly the chilblains that made me feel so wretched. I stretched my hands out to the fire.
George filled his pipe slowly, and lit it. The flame flickered up and down against his face as he drew it in. He grunted and threw the match away.
He said:
‘Hugo is a fool.’
I said:
‘I don’t know. He has a right to like it if he likes.’
George puffed away in silence for a time.
There was some of Mollie’s restfulness about George. It was good to have him in the room when one was troubled.
‘I am losing patience with Hugo,’ he said at last. ‘It is time he grew up.’
I wanted to defend Hugo even from him. It was not Strindberg we were talking about. We both knew that.
I said:
‘I think it is a mistake to say that. One can’t choose for other people. Hugo knows what he wants.’
‘No,’ said George shortly. ‘He doesn’t. That’s the trouble.’
He glanced up at me, and away again into the fire.
‘We must be patient with Hugo,’ he said in a different tone. ‘He takes a long time to understand things sometimes, but he does understand in the end.’
‘I think perhaps he understands too much,’ I said, and wished I had not said it.