“And you—and Mayhew—and me——” I continued.
He looked at me very intently to see if I were mocking. He laughed. I could see he was very much moved.
“Is the time quite out of joint?” I asked.
“Why!”—he laughed. “No. But she makes me feel so angry—as if I should burst—I don’t know when I felt in such a rage. I wonder why. I’m sorry for him, poor devil. ‘Lettie and Leslie’—they seemed christened for one another, didn’t they?”
“What if you’d had her?” I asked.
“We should have been like a cat and dog; I’d rather be with Meg a thousand times—now!” he added significantly. He sat watching the lamps and the people and the dark buildings slipping past us.
“Shall we go and have a drink?” I asked him, thinking we would call in Frascati’s to see the come-and-go.
“I could do with a brandy,” he replied, looking at me slowly.
We sat in the restaurant listening to the jigging of the music, watching the changing flow of the people. I like to sit a long time by the hollyhocks watching the throng of varied bees which poise and hesitate outside the wild flowers, then swing in with a hum which sets everything aquiver. But still more fascinating it is to watch the come and go of people weaving and intermingling in the complex mesh of their intentions, with all the subtle grace and mystery of their moving, shapely bodies.
I sat still, looking out across the amphitheatre. George looked also, but he drank glass after glass of brandy.