“We’re both in a mess,” he said. “Right in. Up to the neck.”
“I don’t know how much longer I shall be able to stand it,” said Jona. “In London it was actresses. Down here it’s ladies from the Mammoth Circus. We have three equestriennes and a tight-rope dancer staying with us, and he makes love to them all. He’s not been sober—not noticeably—for the last six weeks. I still keep up the bright badinage, but it sometimes seems artificial. It’s wearing thin. Everything’s wearing thin. Very thin. Oh Lukie!”
“Listen,” said Luke resolutely. “I’m going to be noble. This is little Lukie, underneath his straw hat, being noble. Some men would confess their love for you. They would pour out in words the passion that was consuming them. I shall not. In fact, you’ll have to guess. Only, if the time ever does come that you simply cannot stand it any longer, apply to me. Applications should be sent to the office address in care of Mabel. Write distinctly. Good-by, Jona.”
He tore himself from her, and reeled away, not knowing what direction he was taking.
After an hour he found himself standing in front of his own office. It was just as well. He had left his bicycle there.
Diggle came down the stairs into the street, and Luke walked up to him at once: “Can I have that partnership now?” said Luke.
Diggle glanced at his watch.
“Applications of this kind,” he said, “should be made in office hours. It is now after six. Good evening, Mr. Sharper.”
Mechanically, automatically, not knowing what he did, Luke prepared for his ride home to Jawbones. Then he became aware that he was pushing something along on the pavement. What was it? It was a bicycle. He pushed it into a policeman. The policeman asked him to take it into the road.
He walked along in the road now, still wheeling his bicycle, and looking all around him.