His mother had come nearer to breaking down than he had ever seen; a vague stirring of masculine protectiveness steadied Eric.
“I’m feeling used up,” he answered wearily. “It may be this hot spring... I think it’s the war... and the strain of the last few weeks, the strain of the last two or three years... It takes something to drive me into a doctor’s arms, but I’ll get myself thoroughly overhauled by Gaisford and, what’s more, I’ll tell you what he says and I’ll carry out his orders to the letter. There’s no need for you to worry, mother.”
He kissed her with a bluff attempt at reassurance and scrambled out of bed. It was humiliating that he had to steady himself by gripping the top of his dressing-table, and, when he began to pour out his shaving-water, as much slopped on to the wash-hand-stand as went into his glass. He could only hope that, as she said nothing, his mother had seen nothing.
It was late afternoon when he reached Waterloo, and, after dining at his club, he drove to Dr. Gaisford’s house in Wimpole Street. The butler, who was a friend of many years’ standing, regretted that his master was not yet returned and invited Eric to come in and wait.
“I suppose you’ve no idea where he is or how long he’ll be?,” asked Eric.
The butler retired to the consulting-room and returned with an engagement-pad.
“He dined at home at half after seven, sir,” he announced. “Then he was going to Sir Marcus Fordyce in Hay Hill, then to Mrs. Grimthorpe in Upper Brook Street, then to Colonel Somers in Half-Moon Street—and then to you, sir; to your young lady, I should say. He said he’d be back not later than twelve.”
“And it’s half-past nine now. I’ll go home and wait for him. If I miss him, will you tell him, when he comes in, that I called? And will you ring me up and let me know when I can see him to-morrow? Say I’ve come up from the country on purpose.”
He reached Ryder Street in time to find the hall lit up and a bowler hat and stick on the table. The whole flat was sweet and heavy with the warm scent of flowers. They symbolized Ivy, and he could fancy that he was already married and returning to their home. It was a new, electrifying emotion, the sublime epitome of all the moments when he had waited of a morning to hear her ring. Latterly she had been too much the patient; until that moment the flat had not drawn its life from her.
A murmur of voices reached him from the passage leading to her bedroom; he wrote “Don’t go till you’ve seen me” on the back of an envelope and dropped it into the hat; then he picked up the evening paper and went into the library.