Gaymer looked at him for a moment without understanding.
“I wonder what you’re trying to get at..,” he murmured.
Refusing the offer of a seat in Sonia’s car, he strolled towards Buckingham Gate and arranged to have his luggage collected from the O’Ranes’ house. There had been no purpose in going there, no purpose in declining the lift, no purpose in anything. He could not make up his mind or decide what he wanted to do next. After ordering luncheon at home because he did not want to meet people at his club, he countermanded the order and set out aimlessly across the Park. The government offices were emitting a stream of girl-clerks, and he paused to watch them with disfavour; other women were curiously unattractive at this moment... One o’clock... He too must have something to eat....
Instead of walking to his club, Gaymer found himself halting irresolutely at the corner of Ryder Street. It was in one of these houses that Ivy worked now; at any moment she might come out, he could invite her to lunch with him... He waited for half-an-hour and then turned disgustedly into St. James’ Street. Ivy was not coming out. Eric Lane had taken possession of her with so much assurance that no one else was allowed to see her....
An errand-boy swept round the corner on the wrong side of the road and sent his front wheel over Gaymer’s toes before overbalancing with basket and bicycle. Gaymer surveyed him dispassionately for a moment and then broke into such abuse that a crowd began to collect. The furious rush of foul language eased a pressure which was becoming unbearable. The boy was scared, the onlookers were cynically amused; amusement changed to inarticulate sympathy as Gaymer paused, drew breath and started again; he was still hurling maledictions when boy and bicycle had disappeared from sight, and the idlers raised a murmur of sympathy as a white-whiskered admiral intervened in defence of decency.
“Mind your own blasted business, curse you!,” Gaymer roared in savage delight at finding a new antagonist.
“Another word, and I give you in charge for using obscene language,” threatened the admiral.
The crowd, which was beginning to disperse, collected again and raised a subdued cheer in support of the old man. “Quite right too!,” Gaymer heard. “Perfectly disgusting... Ashamed of himself...” He filled his lungs for an annihilating attack on them all; but, before he could deliver it, Carstairs elbowed his way through the onlookers and demanded to know what was amiss.
“Swine of a boy runs his bloody machine over my toes...,” Gaymer began.
“Well, don’t make such a row about it! Come to the club and have some lunch.”