Tom agreed that it would be a very good thing for them all to meet.
"They've got what's happened just a trifle wrong," he said. "It's only fair to clear things up."
They all appeared on the appointed day—Mrs. Matcham, as president, in a lovely rose-coloured tulle for which she was just a little too old, Hattie, Dollie, Harwood Dorset, Henry Matcham, Pelham Duddon, Morgraunt and Lucile, Dora, and of course Claribel. The event had the appearance of one of the dear old parties.
The flat was just as beautiful, the tea as sumptuous, Sheraton as perfect. They hung around the same chairs, the same table, in all their finery and beauty and expense. They were as sure of conquest as they had ever been.
Tom sat on the red leather top of the fire-guard and faced them.
Mrs. Matcham led the attack.
"Now, dear old Tom," she said, in that cooing and persuasive voice of hers, so well known and so well liked; "you know that we all love you."
"Yes, I know you do," said Tom, grinning.
"We do. All of us. You've just been a hero, and we're all proud to death of you. It's only our pride and our love for you that allows us to interfere. We don't want to interfere, but we do want to know what's happening. Henry has heard that you're working down in the East End, doing splendidly, and it's just like your dear old noble self, but is it wise? Are you taking advice? Won't those people down there do you in, so to speak? I know that this is a time, of course, when we've all got to study social conditions. No thinking man or woman can possibly look round and not see that there is a great deal ... a whole lot ... well, anyway, you know what I mean, Tom. But is it right, without consulting any of us, to go down to all those queer people? They can't like you really, you know. It's only for what they can get out of you, and all that. After all, your own people are your own people, aren't they, Tom dear?"
"I don't know." Tom looked up at her smiling. "But I don't think that's exactly the point. They may be or they may not.... Look here. You've got one or two wrong ideas about this. I want you to have the truth, and then we won't have to bother one another any more. You talk about my working and being noble, and so on. That's the most awful Tommy-rot. I'll tell you exactly what happened. I came back from France. At least, no, I didn't come back; but my body came back, if you know what I mean. I stayed over there. At least, I suppose that is what happened. I didn't know myself what it was. I just know that I didn't exist. You all used to come to tea here and be awfully nice and so on, but I didn't hear a word any of you said. I hope that doesn't sound rude, but I'm trying to tell exactly what occurred. I didn't know what was the matter with me—I wasn't anybody at all. I was Nobody. I didn't exist; and I asked Sheraton, and he didn't know either. And then, one night——"