For a while he pursued the train of thought started by the lovers on the bench. The distant noises of the huge city filled his ears with a murmur like a far-off sea, and abruptly, all unbidden, Hope the Inextinguishable flamed up within him. Winged fancy soared and flitted above the conflagration.
"But supposing," said Podgie d'Auvergne to the pebbles underfoot, returning to his hurt like a sow to her wallow, "supposing I was sitting there with her on that seat and some fellow came along and insulted her!" He considered unhinging possibilities with a brow of thunder. "Damn it!" said the King's Messenger, "I couldn't even thrash the blighter."
He made a fierce pass in the air with his walking-stick, dispelling imaginary Apaches, and brought himself under the observation of a policeman in Birdcage Walk.
"Any way, I'm not likely to find myself sitting on a bench with her in
St. James's Park, or anywhere else," concluded the soliloquist. High
Fancy, with scorched wings, fluttered down to mundane levels.
He turned into Queen Anne's Gate, but on the steps leading up to the once familiar door he paused and looked up at the front of the old house.
"That's her window," said the King's Messenger, and added sternly, "but I'm here on duty, and even if she——" He rang the bell and stood listening to the preposterous thumping of his heart.
The door opened while he was framing an imaginary sentence that had nothing to do with the duty in hand.
"Hullo, Haines!" he said. "Where's Sir William?"
The old butler peered at the visitor irresolutely for an instant.
"Why," he said, "Mr. d'Auvergne, sir, you're a stranger! For a moment
I didn't recognise you standing out on the doorstep——"