She was so exquisite, Jo was . . . so beautiful, gay, sweet . . . so proud to all the world, so tender to me . . . I’ld ’ve said I was too old for her, only she lifted me up and made me a child.
Berwick Perowne. I hardly know the man, except by name. I’ve only met him twice. Once that night at the Meurices’ and once again at the Ritz. I wonder where——
I must go to bed. I must let old Bugle out and go to bed. The great thing is not to think. If Jo were here, I should——
I must go to—God! My God! I can’t. . . .
I think I shall sleep here to-night. There’s nothing the matter with the Chesterfield, and I can get some rugs from the hall.
And I don’t think I shall go to ‘The Office’ to-morrow. If I do, they’re bound to act. Whereas, if I hold my hand for another day, S. will have had his money and cut his own throat. And, instead of a bad ten minutes, he’ll be broken on the wheel. After all, why shouldn’t he be broken? Others are.
IV
February 20th, 1929
At half-past nine last night I was sitting in the study with Bugle with only the fire for light, when I heard the front-door open and someone come in. Now that Jo’s gone, no one but I has a key, so Bugle and I got up and went to the door.
It was Jo.
Before I could speak her arms were round my neck.