"I'm a bit knocked out," he explained. "The malaria has got hold of me again, and the doctor says I must go out at once."
The other man nodded sympathetically, and suggested a drink. He, himself, had been out of work for nearly six months, and the chance of securing Jimmy's berth had altered the whole outlook for him.
"Yes, you do look off colour," he said. "I've noticed it several times lately. Night work doesn't suit you, I suppose. Now, I'm used to it, been at it for years. Well, I'll give Dodgson this note of yours. It'll be all right. He knows me well enough. So long. Thanks very much for thinking of me."
Jimmy turned wearily, and went down the corridor to the dining-room. He had eaten nothing all day, and it struck him Lalage would be worried if she knew.
"Bring me anything you like," he said to the waiter, but when the plates came he merely took one mouthful, and then sat, staring with unseeing eyes at a paper he had picked up, whilst the gravy grew cold and greasy. He was wondering what Lalage was doing, alone in that little hotel near the General Post Office.
"As long as it's quiet, Jimmy, that's all I care about; and the further from the West End the better. Noise would drive me quite mad, I think," she had said.
So far, he had not tried to analyse his own feelings toward Lalage. All he knew was that he was sounding the lowest depths of misery, and he speculated, more or less vaguely, whether she could understand what he was suffering. He wanted to blame her, in fact he knew that he ought to blame her, that she had betrayed him and had sinned beyond all hope of forgiveness; and yet in his ears there was still ringing her heart-broken wail, "I did it all for you Jimmy, I did it all for you."
At last the voice of the waiter broke in on his thoughts. "You don't seem to like that, sir. Anything I can get for you instead?"
Jimmy started. "No, no. It's quite all right. I don't feel hungry now, that's the only trouble, thanks."