But Inspiration hid Her face; and shadows came out of the four corners of the room and closed in upon her.
Breakfast was always brought on a tray by a maid called Kate. For the rest of her meals she frequented A.B.C. shops, and the like, existing on cups of tea and boiled eggs and glasses of milk, after the manner of women who live alone and have to economise. But sometimes in a wild burst of extravagance she would wend her way to Soho and order a little Italian meal all hors-d'œuvres and thin Chianti. She loved to hear the French and Italian chatter about her, and felt more at home there than anywhere, not minding the men's bold, dark glances, for in her travels with Abinger she had learnt to know that there was really little of harm in them. Of course, she attracted much attention and often had uncomfortable adventures in her lonely goings and comings; but she did not let these ruffle her greatly, telling herself that all such things were part and parcel of the fight. She minded nothing, in fact, except the tragic atmosphere of her room, which engulfed her spirit as soon as she entered. The nights began to be even more eerie. She lay awake often until dawn, and presently longings and urgings came upon her to procure something that would produce sleep. She had never known anyone who took drugs or sleeping-draughts, and could not imagine what put such an idea into her head—indeed, having read De Quincey's Confessions, she had a horror of such things, and so, fought the suggestion with all her might. But still it returned. Once when she was sitting at her table, with a throbbing head, biting her pencil before a blank sheet of paper, she distinctly heard someone softly say:
"Go and buy some inspiration."
She stared about the empty room.
"What can be the matter with me?" she demanded of herself, after a time, and strove with all her strength to work and drive such insane thoughts from her. But the writer within her was mute, the poet dumb, and her woman's body was very weary.
One day, she had been striving with herself for many hours, writing down dry, banal words that she almost dug out of the paper a moment afterwards. At intervals she sat with her head on her arms, wondering what had ever caused her to dream that she was born to the pen; brooding over the possibilities of her chances as a shop-girl, a waitress in a tea-shop, a chorus-girl, a housemaid—as anything but a writer of poems and romantic fiction, at which she was obviously a dismal failure.
At last she flung papers and pencils to the four corners of the room, and left the house. Out of doors it was raining fearsomely. After tramping for an hour or so, soaked through, she found herself back near home, in Theobald's Row—a hateful street that smells of fish and rank cheese, where men bawl out the price of pork-chops, and women come furtively stealing from side-doors, wiping their lips. She made haste to get into Southampton Row, which has a sweeter savour to the nostrils and a staid, respectable air. At a corner she passed a paper shop, which had many news-boards exposed, with the "sheets" hanging dripping and torn from them. One yellow sheet stood out boldly with the words "South Africa" in black letters across it. A pang of joy shot through her. She could have fallen down before that tattered paper and kissed the magic words. The name of her own land! The land that had beaten her and bruised her and flung her out to seek a living and safety in another country—but her own land! Some words came to her lips:
"She said: God knows they owe me naught.
I tossed them to the foaming sea,
I tossed them to the howling waste,
Yet still their love comes home to me."
So far she had forbidden herself entirely the luxury of journals and magazines, saying that she could not afford them; but now she went into the shop and recklessly bought up everything that had any connection with South-African affairs.