He had gone to bed on Wednesday night. He knew that because he remembered the date of his letter to Commander Howard Vincent, R. N. R. He made the astounding discovery that he had slept just forty-four hours. Then he made a second discovery and that was that of his precious eight days' leave, three were already gone.
After he had dined he inquired at the desk for his mail, and searched through the telegrams, but there was nothing for him.
Then he betook himself to the streets, aware that the spectre of loneliness was hard on his trail, and swiftly catching up with him. London was roaring around him in the dark, like a jungle full of wild beasts, of whose shapes he could catch now and then horrid glimpses. Among all the millions in the city, he knew of no living soul to whom he could go for companionship, nor was there anything in form of amusement that specially invited him.
There was Grand Opera, of course, but from its associations with his father he knew that that would bring him only acute misery. Gladly would he have gone to the hospitals, but they would be shut against him at this hour. He bought an evening paper, and under a shaded lamp studied the amusement columns. Some of the Revues he knew to be simply tiresome, others disgusting. None of them appealed to him. Aimlessly he wandered along the streets, heedless of his direction, conscious now and then of an additional pang of wretchedness as he caught a glimpse now and then at a theatre door of young officers passing in with sweet faced girls on their arms.
At length in desperation he followed one such pair, and found himself listening to Cinderella. Its light and delicate fancy, its sweet pathos, its gentle humour lured him temporarily from his misery, but often there came back upon him the bitter memory of his comrades in their horrid environment of filth, danger and wretchedness.
He found some compensation in the thought that these officers beside him were like himself on leave, and while he envied them, he did not grudge them their delight in the play, and their obviously greater delight in their lovely companions beside them, but this again was neutralised by the bitter recollection of his own hard fate which denied him a like joy.
After the play he stood in the entrance hall, observing the crowd, indulging his sense of ill-usage at the hands of fate as he saw the officers lingering with many unnecessary touches over the cloaking of their fair partners, and as he caught the answering glances and smiles that rewarded their attentions.
His eyes followed the manoeuvrings of the painted ladies as they hovered about the doors, boldly busy with their profession. He understood as never before the nature of their lure and the overpowering subtlety of the temptation cast by them over the lonely soldier in London.
Close at his side he heard a voice:
“How do you like it, boy? Not bad, eh?”