Stratton came again and again for dinner, and now and then dropped in of an evening. Always against his will, he told himself; but the attraction was strong enough to draw him there. It was plain, too, that Myra’s eyes brightened when he entered, but he felt that it was only to see her father’s friend.
Then came one autumn night when, after a long and busy day, Stratton made up his mind to go to Bourne Square, undid it, made up his mind again, once more undid it, and determined that he would no longer play the moth round the bright candle.
He had dressed, and, throwing off his light coat and crush hat, he went out of his rooms and along the landing to Brettison’s.
“I’ll go and talk botany,” he said. “Life is too valuable to waste upon a heartless woman.”
He knocked; no answer. Again; no reply.
“Gone out,” he said. “What shall I do?”
Stratton hesitated for a few moments, and then went and fetched his hat and coat, descended, took a cab, and ordered the man to drive to Guest’s, in Grey’s Inn.
“Better have stopped at home,” muttered Stratton; “he will talk about nothing else but Bourne Square.” But he was wrong. Guest was out, so descending into the square, and walking out into Holborn, Stratton took another cab.
“Where to, sir?”
“Bourne Square.”