“Good-bye.”
He was about to leave when he turned again.
“You mustn’t mind me saying this, Jim. Meredith is seeing a great deal too much of Angela. There is doubtless nothing in it, but—well, Angela is my sister, and I don’t like Meredith.”
When he had gone Jim sat and pondered over the words. A similar hint had been dropped by 97 Cholmondeley. So Angela was already considered fair spoil by men like Meredith! Meredith was out to win the love that he had lost. It rankled—it hurt. But behind his fury there lurked the sinister shadow of defeat and humiliation. There were giddy heights to which he could not climb, and to which Meredith was soaring—Meredith, a man he could have taken in his own hands and broken; a cheat, armed with every weapon that culture could forge, and little else.
In the evening he summoned up his failing courage and went to Angela’s house. It was one blaze of light and one tumult of sound. A dapper footman opened the door and took his card. He waited in the hall, running his eyes over the rich decorations. From higher up the hall came sounds of revelry, and now and again he caught sight of figures flitting to and fro. The sound of a string band drifted down to him, and then laughter—cultured, high-toned laughter that grated on his nerves.
When eventually he was shown into the drawing-room, he wished he hadn’t come. Angela was one blaze of glory. Her guests bowed to 98 him in a fashion that was intended, and succeeded, to make their superiority felt. Angela was cool and remarkably self-possessed.
“I was passing and jest dropped in,” he explained.
“That was very nice of you. Will you take anything to drink?”
He shook his head negatively. He only wanted to get away from these people. They were too polite to whisper to each other, but their silence was eloquent enough. They were laughing in their sleeves at this unfortunate husband. A figure dawdled up, and bowing, took Angela’s arm with a smirking smile. It was Meredith.
It was a pleasure to breathe the fresher air outside. Jim caught the next train to Devonshire, feeling like a dog that has been kicked by its mistress. He arrived home to find a pile of bills—debts incurred by Angela—awaiting him. He glared at them, half inclined to return them and repudiate responsibility. But he didn’t. He wrote numerous checks for considerable sums and sent them away.