“Well, why won’t you give me a trial?”
“For purely conventional reasons. I know your uncle and aunt very well. I’m not going to be party to a conspiracy for taking away the daughter of a very eminent judge against his wishes. If I can help you to find work of which your parents approve, I’ll do what I can. But I’ve been away from England so long that I can’t promise anything; and I’ve no idea how long I shall be there.”
The cigar was but half-finished, but he threw it away and shook hands, trying not to see that she was disappointed but in no doubt that it was hardly reasonable for him to be stampeded by any mercurial nineteen-year-old to whom he shewed a moment’s civility.
“It’s awfully good of you, I feel I’ve no right to bother you like this,” she answered. “I meant to talk about your plays; and I’ve only talked about myself.”
“It was more interesting—to me. If you think I can help in any way, write to me at the Regency Theatre or the Thespian Club, Grosvenor Place.”
“But I hope to see you on the boat.”
Eric had not overlooked that possibility, but he decided that he did not want to meet Miss Ivy Maitland again.
“But—in case we don’t,” he said. “Good-night.”
In his own room he threw open the window to liberate the day’s stifling accumulation of steam-heating. Kneeling on a chair with his chin on his hands, he looked down on a plateau of roofs startlingly punctuated by the blazing bean-stalks of slender giant buildings. It was the last time that he would see New York at night, the last time that he would be in America. He had made his last speech; he hoped devoutly that he had submitted for the last time to the unintelligent exuberance of too appreciative school-girls....
At three o’clock his vigil was not yet ended, but he turned from the window with a shiver and began to undress. It was well enough to make this catalogue of things that he would never do again, but for two years he had been trying to discover what life he could fashion for himself in their stead.