Made her dresses, shopped, visited a hospital, played her piano, translated from the French.
She had regular work from a publisher, it seemed, which supplemented her income a little. She seldom went out in the evening. “I’ve been living alone so long, you see, that I don’t mind it a bit. I believe I’m naturally solitary.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Jolyon. “Do you know many people?”
“Very few.”
At Waterloo they took a hansom, and he drove with her to the door of her mansions. Squeezing her hand at parting, he said:
“You know, you could always come to us at Robin Hill; you must let me know everything that happens. Good-bye, Irene.”
“Good-bye,” she answered softly.
Jolyon climbed back into his cab, wondering why he had not asked her to dine and go to the theatre with him. Solitary, starved, hung-up life that she had! “Hotch Potch Club,” he said through the trap-door. As his hansom debouched on to the Embankment, a man in top-hat and overcoat passed, walking quickly, so close to the wall that he seemed to be scraping it.
“By Jove!” thought Jolyon; “Soames himself! What’s he up to now?” And, stopping the cab round the corner, he got out and retraced his steps to where he could see the entrance to the mansions. Soames had halted in front of them, and was looking up at the light in her windows. “If he goes in,” thought Jolyon, “what shall I do? What have I the right to do?” What the fellow had said was true. She was still his wife, absolutely without protection from annoyance! “Well, if he goes in,” he thought, “I follow.” And he began moving towards the mansions. Again Soames advanced; he was in the very entrance now. But suddenly he stopped, spun round on his heel, and came back towards the river. “What now?” thought Jolyon. “In a dozen steps he’ll recognise me.” And he turned tail. His cousin’s footsteps kept pace with his own. But he reached his cab, and got in before Soames had turned the corner. “Go on!” he said through the trap. Soames’ figure ranged up alongside.
“Hansom!” he said. “Engaged? Hallo!”