He decided at last not to send the letter but to go himself, and he went to the Detmold just as the light was fading and he knew she would be leaving.
She had gone already, but he met Clowes, who, he knew, lived with her. He pounced on her and said:—
“You must come to tea with me.”
“I’m afraid I . . .”
“You must! You must!”
She saw he was very excited and she had heard stories of his bursting into tears when he was thwarted. In some alarm she consented to go with him.
He led her to a teashop, a horrible place that smelt of dishwater and melted butter, made her sit at a table, and burst at once into a tirade:—
“You are Morrison’s friend. Will you tell me why she has avoided me? She came to my studio once and she said she would come again. She sent me flowers for three weeks, but she has sent no more.”
“She—she is very forgetful,” said Clowes, who was longing for tea but did not dare to tell him to turn to the waitress, who was hovering behind him.
“But she nodded to me as if she had hardly met me before,” said Mendel.