‘Not I,’ Paul answered bluntly; ‘I waited up to speak to you. Are you going to marry that grinning nincompoop?’
‘You presume,’ said Claudia, with yet more of the manner of the stage. ‘You presume abominably. Allow me to pass, sir.’
‘The man has offered you a life of shame,’ said Paul. ‘You mean to listen to him after that? She looked at him scornfully and defiantly. ‘Well,’ he said, shivering strangely from head to foot, ‘you’re not the woman I took you for. It’s good-bye to Claudia.’
He stood aside for her to pass. She lit her candle and swept by him. He heard her door close, and the key turn in the lock. He stood shuddering in the hall, the chance-held candle dropping grease upon the oil-cloth. He gave one big dry sob and mounted to his garret-room. There was no sleep for him, and he did not undress. The candle burned down in its socket, the light flared up and died, and the nauseous stink of wick and tallow filled the room. His mind was strangely vacant, but even in the darkness and the silence he found a thousand things in which to take a leaden interest: as the swaying of the window-curtains where a slight draught caught them; the faintly-seen progress of the rain-drops down the window-pane; the wet glints of light where the street gas-lamp dimly irradiated the windows and the houses on the opposite side of the way; a ticking insect in the wall-paper; sounds of night traffic in the great thoroughfare a quarter of a mile off; the squashing tramp of a policeman on his rounds; the moaning voices of wind and rain; the very beating of his own pulses in his head; the very stupor of his own intelligence.
It was still raining when the dismal dawn crept up, and he was chilled to the marrow. He rose stupidly from the chair in which he had passed the night, and began to change his dress, stiffly and with difficulty. During the greater part of the night he had been sitting in a drooping posture, and he found without trouble or interest that he could not change it. There was an aching weight upon his loins, but he had no interest in that either. He sat in his room all day. The chambermaid came to the door and tapped, and receiving no answer, entered. She stared to see him sitting at the window and the bed undisturbed, but she went away again. Somehow the day crawled on, and as the darkness fell he crept downstairs, and crawled, an aching stoop, to the theatre. He was an hour before the time, but by hazard he met the manager at the stage-door.
‘Why, great God, Armstrong! what’s the matter?’
‘I got wet last night,’ Paul answered, in a voice which startled him and pained his throat.
He had not spoken a word since he had said good-bye to Claudia.
‘You’ve no right to be out like this,’ said the manager brusquely; ‘it’s suicide. You’re no good here, you know,’ he added, in a kinder voice. ‘Here, you, Collins; call a cab, and help Mr. Armstrong into it.’
‘Can you do without me?’ Paul asked, in that strange voice.