On the first day, in the viva-voce examination on surgery, he did, for one moment, lose his head, but when once he had pulled himself together and accustomed himself to the conditions of the test, he settled down into a state of fatalistic equanimity, taking the rough with the smooth and deciding that, on the whole, he was not likely to make a hopeless fool of himself.
On the first night he went to bed early, but on the second, feeling that his mind would be clearer for some diversion, he went to a music-hall with W.G. and his wife. Drinking beer in the bar with his friend, he suddenly heard his name called, and felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find himself in front of a face that was curiously familiar, and in a moment found that he was shaking hands with Widdup, a small and rather chastened Widdup, who spoke to him with the slow, precise voice that he had known at St. Luke’s.
“I thought it was you, Ingleby,” he said. “I wondered if I should run across you.”
Avoiding a hair-raising display on the slack wire, they stood talking. Widdup, it appeared, had been destined for an engineering career in North Bromwich, when his mathematical genius had won him a scholarship at Cambridge.
“A pity, in a way, for I should have seen more of you. I suppose that sort of thing always happens to school friendships.” At present he was visiting a firm of iron-founders on business. They talked together of old times: of the day when Edwin, greatly daring, had seen the Birches run: of the languid Selby, now head-master of a small public-school in Norfolk, and of old fat Leeming. Between the conscious effort of remembering St. Luke’s and the unbidden image of Rosie, Edwin’s head was in a whirl.
“And old Griffin,” said Widdup. “That’s another funny thing. I ran slap into him in the lounge of the Grand Midland to-night. Up to the same old games, you know. Yes . . . he had a girl with him. Rather an attractive little piece: something to do with the pantomime, he told me. What was her name? The old brute introduced me, too! Yes . . . I think I’ve got it. Beaucaire . . . Rosie Beaucaire. Rather a rosy prospect for old Griff, I should imagine. Why, what the devil’s the matter with you?”
“I’m all right, thanks,” said Edwin. “It’s this exam., you know. Let’s have another drink.” He called for whisky and soda.
“Chin-chin,” said Widdup.
Edwin polished off a couple of drinks and then told Widdup that he must rejoin his friend, leaving him staggered at his abrupt departure. He didn’t rejoin W.G. He walked straight out of the theatre and off up the Halesby Road. He had determined to go straight to Rosie’s lodgings and thrash the matter out; but by the time he reached Prince Albert’s Place he had thought better of it.
It was the most natural thing in the world, he reflected, that Griffin should know the Beaucaires, for Griffin was constantly in touch with theatrical people. It was even natural that Griffin, knowing her, should take Rosie to the Grand Midland. It was the obvious thing to do if you had money to spend, as Griffin had. It would be just like the irony of fate, he reflected, if Griffin should afflict him with unhappiness in this case as he had done in so many others. He remembered the bitter sufferings of those early days at St. Luke’s that Widdup had so clearly recalled. He remembered Dorothy Powys and the dance at Mawne: his suspicions, his agonised resentment. Even more darkly there came to him the memory of a voice in Dr. Harris’s surgery, a conviction, never yet established, that Griffin had no right to know any woman. This reflection, he knew, implied a doubt of Rosie’s innocence: an imputation that he could not possibly admit. And yet . . . and yet . . . He remembered the warning that Bertie Flood had given him in his dressing room. He remembered the visitor in the black coat four days before. His mind was in hell.