I saw Churchill, in turn, move desultorily toward them, drawn in, like a straw toward a little whirlpool. I turned my back in a fury of jealousy.
CHAPTER NINE
I had a pretty bad night after that, and was not much in the mood for Fox on the morrow. The sight of her had dwarfed everything; the thought of her disgusted me with everything, made me out of conceit with the world—with that part of the world that had become my world. I wanted to get up into hers—and I could not see any way. The room in which Fox sat seemed to be hopelessly off the road—to be hopelessly off any road to any place; to be the end of a blind alley. One day I might hope to occupy such a room—in my shirt-sleeves, like Fox. But that was not the end of my career—not the end that I desired. She had upset me.
“You’ve just missed Polehampton,” Fox said; “wanted to get hold of your 'Atmospheres.’”
“Oh, damn Polehampton,” I said, “and particularly damn the 'Atmospheres.’”
“Willingly,” Fox said, “but I told Mr. P. that you were willing if....”
“I don’t want to know,” I repeated. “I tell you I’m sick of the things.”
“What a change,” he asserted, sympathetically, “I thought you would.”