“Oh, very wonderful,” said Michael bitterly.
And he would go out on the dreaming balcony and, looking down on the motionless lamps, he would hear the murmur and rustle of people. But he was starving amid this rich plenitude of colour and scent; he was idle upon these maddening, these music-haunted, these royal nights that mocked his surrender.
And in the silent heart of the night when the sheets were fibrous and the mattress was jagged, when the pillow seared him and his eyes were like sand, what resolutions he made to carry her away from Kensington; but in the morning how coldly impossible it was to do so at eighteen.
One afternoon coming out of school, Michael met Drake.
“Hullo!” said Drake. “How’s the fair Lily? I haven’t seen you around lately.”
“Haven’t you?” said Michael. “No, I haven’t been round so much lately.”
He spoke as if he had suddenly noticed he had forgotten something.
“I asked her about you—over the garden-wall; so don’t get jealous,” Drake said with his look of wise rakishness. “And she didn’t seem particularly keen on helping out the conversation. So I supposed you’d had a quarrel. Funny girl, Lily,” Drake went on. “I suppose she’s all right when you know her. Why don’t you come in to my place?”
“Thanks,” said Michael.
He felt that fate had given him this opportunity. He had not sought it. He might be able to speak to Lily, and if he could, he would ask her to meet him, and promises could go to the devil. He determined that no more of summer’s treasure should be wasted.