Suddenly Keeling’s anger evaporated, leaving only a sore throbbing place where it had burned.
‘I hope she’s not—not very unhappy,’ he said. He could not help saying that: he had to speak of her to somebody.
‘She is utterly miserable,’ said Charles. ‘It couldn’t be otherwise, could it? And you are miserable too, sir. I am—I am awfully sorry for you both. But I suppose that has got to be. Norah could do nothing else than what she has done.’
Keeling sank down in the chair on which he had been leaning. He felt completely tired out.
‘Do you think she will allow me to see her or write to her?’ he asked.
‘Not for a long time. But—there is no harm in my telling you this—she wants me to tell her how you are. She hopes, sir, that you will make yourself very busy. That’s the best thing to do, isn’t it?’
Keeling had no reply to this. The apathy of intense fatigue, of an excitement and anticipation suddenly nullified, was blunting the sharp edges of his misery. For a little while he sat there with his head in his hands, then slowly and stiffly he got up, looking bent and old.
‘I am sorry that I asked you for her address,’ he said; ‘I will be going home, and you must get back to your packing. Good-night, Propert.’
The world had ceased spinning for him as he walked back. He lifted heavy feet, as if he was going up some steep interminable hill....