"It sounded like that. What luck for me that you overheard her
talking! Is their telephone on the upstairs landing or something?"
"There's one in the studio--we were in there," he said.
"Do you mean she was still photographing you?"
He said no, it was the other studio--"The one where the big photographs are. We were just sitting talking."
"What, till two in the morning?" Then I saw that he was avoiding my eyes, and went on quickly: "Well, tell me about your interview with the film people."
He told me, but hardly a word of it sank in-I was too busy picturing
him in the studio with Leda. I was sure she had been making love to
him. I imagined them sitting on the divan with only one dim light
burning, and the great naked Negro looking down.
The thought was horrible, yet fascinating.
I came back to earth as Stephen was saying:
"I'll take you home and pack up my clothes--though Leda says I shall have to buy some better ones. And I'll see Mr.
Stebbins. He said he wouldn't stand in the way of my career."
"Career" sounded a funny word for Stephen.
"What will Ivy say ?" I asked.
"Oh, Ivy-was he seemed to be remembering her from a long way back.
"She's a good girl, is Ivy."
Somebody brought the morning papers to the people who were waiting for them. All the notices seemed to be very bad. The poor little author
kept saying again and again, "It isn't that I mind for myself, of course... was And his friends were all very indignant with the critics and said notices didn't mean a thing, never had and never would.
"I suppose you'll be getting notices soon," I said to Stephen.
"Well, not notices exactly, but my name's going to be in print.
There's to be a piece about me under the photograph Leda's getting into the papers--saying how I'm a young actor of great promise.
After this one picture where I keep coming on with goats, I'm to go on a contract and be taught to act. But not too much, they say, because
they don't want to spoil me."
There was actually a note of conceit in his voice.
It was so unlike him that I stared in astonishment--and he must have
guessed why I did, because he flushed and added: "Well, that's what they said;
And you wanted me to do it. Oh, let's get out of this place."
I was glad to go. My relief at being rescued had worn off; and there
seemed to me a stale, weary, unnatural feeling about the
restaurant--the thought that it never closed made me feel exhausted
for it. Most of the people now seemed tired and worried the poor
little author was just leaving looking utterly downcast.
The hospital nurse looked pretty cheerful, though; she was having her second go of poached eggs.
We sat on a bench in Leicester Square for a while, with Heloise lying across both our laps. Her elbows dug into me most painfully;
and I didn't like the feel of the Square at all -it isn't a bit like
most London squares--so I said: "Let's go and have a look at the Thames, now that it's getting light."
We asked a policeman the way. He said: "You don't want to use it for jumping in, do you, miss?" which made me laugh.
It was quite a walk- and Heloise loathed it; but she perked up after we bought her a sausage roll from a coffee stall. We got to Westminster
Bridge just as the sky was red with dawn.
I thought of Wordsworth's sonnet but it didn't fit--the city certainly wasn't "All bright and glittering in the smokeless air"; there was a lurid haze over everything. And I couldn't get the feeling of "Dear God!
the very houses seem asleep" because half my mind was still in the Corner House, which never gets a sleep at all.
We stood leaning against the bridge, looking along the river.
It was beautiful, even though I didn't get any feeling of peace. A
gentle little breeze blew against my face--it was like someone pitying me. Tears rolled out of my eyes.
Stephen said: "What is it, Cassandra? Is it--something to do with me?"
For a second I thought he was harking back to his having kissed me in the larch wood. Then I saw the ashamed expression in his eyes. I
said: "No, of course not."
"I might have known that," he said bitterly.
"I
might have guessed that nothing I've done tonight could matter to
you.
Who are you in love with, Cassandra? Is it Neil?"
I ought to have told him he was talking nonsense, that I wasn't in love with anyone, but I was too tired and wretched to pretend.
I just said: "No. It isn't Neil."
"Then it's Simon. That's bad, that is--because Rose will never let him go."
"But she doesn't love him, Stephen. She admitted it was I found myself telling him about our dreadful quarrel in her bedroom, describing how I had crept out of the flat.
"You and your late trains!" he put in.
"I
knew right well there wasn't one."
I went on pouring it all out. When I told him I had realized how
wrongly I had behaved to Rose, he said:
"Don't you worry about that. Rose is bad."
"Not really bad," I said, and began to make excuses for her, telling him she had wanted to help the family as well as herself. He cut me
short by saying:
"But she's bad, really. Lots of women are."
I said: "Sometimes we're bad without meaning to be."
And then I asked him if he could ever forgive me for letting him kiss me, when I knew I was in love with someone else.
"Oh, Stephen, that was bad! And I let you go on thinking I might get to love you."
"I only did for a day or two--I soon saw I was making a fool of myself.
But I couldn't make it out--why you ever let me, I mean. I understand now. Things like that happen when you're in love with the wrong
person. Worse things. Things you never forgive yourself for."
He was staring straight ahead of him, looking utterly wretched.
I said:
"Are you miserable because you made love to Leda Fox-Cotton his It was her fault, wasn't it his You don't need to blame yourself."
"I'll blame myself as long as I live," he said, then suddenly turned to me.
"It's you I love and always will. Oh, Cassandra, are you sure you couldn't ever get to care for me his You liked it when I kissed
you--well, you seemed to. If we could get married his The glow from
the sunrise was on his face, the breeze was blowing his thick fair
hair. He looked desperate and magnificent, more wonderful even than in any of Leda's photographs of him. The vague expression was gone from
his eyes--I had a feeling it had gone for ever.
"I'd work for you, Cassandra. If I'm any good at acting perhaps we could live in London, a long way from--the others. Couldn't I help you through, somehow--when Simon's married to Rose?"
When he said Simon's name, I saw Simon's face. I saw it as it had
looked in the corridor off the ballroom, tired and rather pale.
I saw the black hair growing in a peak on his forehead, the eyebrows
going up at the corners, the little lines at the sides of his mouth.
When first he shaved his beard I thought he was quite handsome, but
that was only because he looked so much younger and so much less odd; I know now that he isn't handsome-compared with Stephen's, his looks
aren't anything at all.
And yet as my eyes turned to Stephen facing the sunrise, Simon in the darkness of my mind, it was as if Simon's had the living face and
Stephen's the one I was imagining --or a photograph, a painting,
something beautiful but not really alive for me.
My whole heart was so full of Simon that even my pity for Stephen
wasn't quite real--it was only something I felt I ought to feel;
more from my head than my heart. And I knew I ought to pity him all
the more because I could pity him so little. I cried out: "Oh, please, please stop! I'm so fond of you--and so deeply grateful. But I could