A tap at the door. It was opened behind him, before he had time to say, “Come in,” and Lily walked up to Jimmy, who sat dumb with surprise: a strange Lily, feverish, distraught with passion. At any other time, she would have felt constrained, because of the thousand marks, or proud to show off her dress. Perhaps also she had prepared things to say. But all that was forgotten, gone, blown away, like a straw in the storm, for nothing came from her but this, in an anxious voice:
“Tell me, Jimmy, is it true that you love me?”
“Why,” said Jimmy, perceiving Lily’s agitation, without guessing the reason: oh, but for Lily to do a thing like that! How she would regret it later; it was terrible this time really. He saw all that at a glance; a great pity invaded him; and yet he was a man of flesh and blood and felt stirred to the marrow. “Why,” he began, in a voice which he strove to make friendly, no more, “why, Lily, who told you that? Why really ... I....”
“Jimmy,” she cried, fixing her eyes, like two flaming swords upon him, “answer me! Do you love me or not?”
Jimmy, turning as pale as a corpse, looked at her without flinching and shook his head in sign of no.
“Oh, you mean cur!” roared Lily.
And she struck him on the face with her clenched fist.
Then she went out without a word, ran down the stairs, out into the blaze of Leicester Square, made for the dark streets and plunged into the night....