Past him, as he so stood, strode, full of vigour and of will, the fixed form of Sir Charles Repton, walking towards Trafalgar Square. The younger man followed him with his eyes and felt in his heart what a gulf there was between them. He was by no means of those who dare, and the thought of office appalled him. Then suddenly he remembered the salary. His legs straightened beneath him and he forced himself up the stairs to where he might ask to see Mr. Sorrel.
CHAPTER VIII
SIR CHARLES REPTON strode up Whitehall. His day’s work had been heavy, in the hours since that morning conversation, and he was suffering.
It was no spiritual suffering which affected that strong character: his life was fixed; the decision he had taken was final. Nay, every circumstance surrounding that decision delighted him. The peerage had been offered at precisely the right moment; he himself could have chosen no better. It was the moment when he particularly desired to be at once more powerful, if that could be, and yet free; more fixed in his political tenure, yet more at large to catch the hand of opportunity. For all his strategy was centred upon the Company which he was determined to save.
That from which he now suffered was physical; he suffered that pain at the back of the head: it had a novel intensity about it; it was not exactly a headache, it was a sort of weight, an oppression, and as he went on northward the pressure got worse and more concentrated just behind either ear.
He would not relax his pace. He saw a taxi which had just discharged a fare at Cox’s Bank; in spite of the trouble in his head which was rapidly increasing, he was clear enough to note that the little flag was up, that the man was free and was about to go away. He signalled to him and got in, and gave the address of his house, bidding him call at the Club on his way.
He remembered, though the bother was getting worse, that there was a big dinner that evening; he tried to remember the names, then quite suddenly a stab of pain behind the right ear almost made him cry out. But Repton was indomitable and he stifled the cry. Hardly had he so conquered himself when he felt another similar violent agony behind the left ear: a man less master of himself would have fainted. It was over in a moment, but he was white and actually uncertain of his steps when he got out at the Club and went up to the porter’s box to ask for letters and messages. There were none.
“Are you certain there are none?” he asked in a weak voice.