"I spoke brutally. I shall beg her p-pardon. Don't come with me!"
"You're as mad as a hatter."
Jim went on to Down Street, ascended the stairs, and began to undress, thinking of two things which obliterated all others—the slender figure of Mark when it reeled back into the arms of the tall, thin surgeon, and the white feather wavering hither and thither above the turbulent crowd.
Half an hour passed, and Mark did not return. Jim grew apprehensive. If Mark had fainted—if he had fallen into coarse, gross hands such as those of the Jew. Then he thought of the colossus at the corner of Devonshire House, and took comfort in him—the Argus-eyed, the omnipresent and omnipotent.
"Not in bed yet?" said Mark.
"By Jove, here you are! I saw you trampled under foot."
"I'm glad I went back. The girl's a good sort—silly, vain, terribly ignorant, but not without heart. I promised to see her again. It wouldn't be a b-bad bit of work to get her out of that—hell."
"You're a rum 'un," said Jim, for since they had parted Mark's face had resumed its natural expression—that look of joyousness which redeemed the harsh features and sallow skin.
"A rum 'un—why?"
"Well, I supposed, you know, that you'd be thinking just now of—of yourself."