Constantly hansoms rattled into view, with disappointing people in them. There appeared to him discouragement in the gaze of the portier now, and a pair of loafers outside the public-house at the corner were taking interest in him.... He supposed she would come? Into the tension of his mood there entered the first sick qualm of doubt.
And the church clock boomed again. Hope was breathing its last in him. Annoyance had melted into despair—he longed for her too intensely to be reproachful if she came. He would rejoice over her, he would unbutton her gloves, he would say how pretty her frock was, and that the chef was delighted to have been given more time!
Five-and-twenty minutes to three! ... Well, he had better see what he had to pay; it was no use hoping any longer. Well, just five minutes!—the last stake. If she weren't here then, she wouldn't come at all; she wouldn't expect him to wait at the door all day.... "At the door!"—his heart stopped—the words bore suddenly a new significance. In Blithepoint "at the door" might have meant at the door of her lodgings. Could it be possible she had misunderstood—had she thought he would be on the doorstep in Great Titchfield Street? No! how could she? she had told him she was married. But the address was Tattie's—yes, she might have thought so! Good heavens! had she been waiting there for him? Perspiration broke out on him. What was he to do? Look at the time!—she had given him up long ago, she had gone away! ... Oh, how could she have thought it? he had named the restaurant! ... Still it was very odd she hadn't come. He must find her, he must explain! But—but—but she was a married woman, he couldn't go and peal the bell and ask for her. Wait a moment, what had she said? Was she to stay with Tattie, or was Tattie to stay with her? ... Anyhow Tattie was there. Yes, he could go—he could go there and ask for Tattie! His head was spinning. What the devil had become of all the cabs?
Two minutes later the portier had blown his whistle, and Soho was behind.
The pace was reckless, but to Conrad's fevered stare even the omnibuses seemed to mock his hansom. Alternately he threw bribes and objurgations through the trap. Where was Great Titchfield Street hidden? Were they making a tour of the West End slums? The cab jerked to a stoppage at last, and he leapt out, and hesitated. Nothing but shops confronted him. Had he forgotten the number—wasn't it "42 bis?" The next moment he saw the name, painted over a window—"Madame Hermiance, French Laundress."
It was very warm inside. Three girls, and a moist loosely clothed woman, whose opulent bosom was partially concealed, stood at work behind a long table. It fluttered with aerial frills and scraps of pink tissue paper; one of the girls was folding things up, and making them look pretty. He said, "Bonjour, madame," and the woman said, "Good afternoon, sare."
"Miss Lascelles, is she staying here? Is she in?"
"Oh no, sare, she is gone."
"Gone?" ejaculated Conrad.
"She did lodge 'ere," added the laundress; "I let 'er a room upstairs; but she go away—she get an engagement. You mean an actress, isn't it?"