“Mr. Pendyce is in the club; I will send your name up, sir.” And rolling a little, as though Gregory's name were heavy, the porter gave it to the boy, who went away with it.
Gregory stood by the empty hearth and waited, and while he waited, nothing struck him at all, for the Stoics seemed very natural, just mere men like himself, except that their clothes were better, which made him think: 'I shouldn't care to belong here and have to dress for dinner every night.'
“Mr. Pendyce is very sorry, sir, but he's engaged.”
Gregory bit his lip, said “Thank you,” and went away.
'That's all Margery wants,' he thought; 'the rest is nothing to me,' and, getting on a bus, he fixed his eyes once more on the sky.
But George was not engaged. Like a wounded animal taking its hurt for refuge to its lair, he sat in his favourite window overlooking Piccadilly. He sat there as though youth had left him, unmoving, never lifting his eyes. In his stubborn mind a wheel seemed turning, grinding out his memories to the last grain. And Stoics, who could not bear to see a man sit thus throughout that sacred hour, came up from time to time.
“Aren't you going to dine, Pendyce?”
Dumb brutes tell no one of their pains; the law is silence. So with George. And as each Stoic came up, he only set his teeth and said:
“Presently, old chap.”