CHAPTER XLI
Which discovers something of Despised Poetry in a Waste-paper Basket
Noll, the door having closed on Betty’s skirts, took his way in the darkness of the lamp-lit night towards Soho.
He turned to his most loyal and closest friend to secure him as witness to his marriage.
As he went, the young fellow forestalled in his mind all the questions that Gomme’s searching humour might ask. Why was he going to Paris? He scarcely knew. He had some vague idea that he must see life before the creative gift of artistry could be his. He had some even more vague idea that he would see such life in Paris. His instinct told him that life would be easier for Betty there—she would not suffer slight. He knew that life would be gayer at a far smaller price. His young blood was jumping for a change.
He must be moving—doing.
He roused at Gomme’s doorway, ran up the steps, and rang the bell.
The house was in gloomy darkness, and, the door being opened, there stepped into the resulting blackness the grim grey figure of Netherby’s mother.
“Ah, Mrs. Gomme, how are you?”
The youth hailed her, and entered the hall. And he added, as the door was closed behind him: