‘But I’m in love with you!’ he exclaimed, with something like dismay. He leant against the window-sill, looking over the city as she had looked. Everything had become miraculously different and completely distinct. His feelings were justified and needed no further explanation. But he must impart them to some one, because his discovery was so important that it concerned other people too. Shutting the book of Greek photographs, and hiding his relics, he ran downstairs, snatched his coat, and passed out of doors.
The lamps were being lit, but the streets were dark enough and empty enough to let him walk his fastest, and to talk aloud as he walked. He had no doubt where he was going. He was going to find Mary Datchet. The desire to share what he felt, with some one who understood it, was so imperious that he did not question it. He was soon in her street. He ran up the stairs leading to her flat two steps at a time, and it never crossed his mind that she might not be at home. As he rang her bell, he seemed to himself to be announcing the presence of something wonderful that was separate from himself, and gave him power and authority over all other people. Mary came to the door after a moment’s pause. He was perfectly silent, and in the dusk his face looked completely white. He followed her into the room.
‘Do you know each other?’ she said, to his extreme surprise, for he had counted on finding her alone. A young man rose, and said that he knew Ralph by sight.
‘We were just going through some papers,’ said Mary. ‘Mr Basnett has to help me, because I don’t know much about my work yet. It’s the new society,’ she explained. ‘I’m the secretary. I’m no longer at Russell Square.’
The voice in which she gave this information was so constrained as to sound almost harsh.
‘What are your aims?’ said Ralph. He looked neither at Mary nor at Mr Basnett. Mr Basnett thought he had seldom seen a more disagreeable or formidable man than this friend of Mary’s, this sarcastic-looking, white-faced Mr Denham, who seemed to demand, as if by right, an account of their proposals, and to criticize them before he had heard them. Nevertheless, he explained his projects as clearly as he could, and knew that he wished Mr Denham to think well of them.
‘I see,’ said Ralph, when he had done. ‘D’you know, Mary,’ he suddenly remarked, ‘I believe I’m in for a cold. Have you any quinine?’ di The look which he cast at her frightened her; it expressed mutely, perhaps without his own consciousness, something deep, wild, and passionate. She left the room at once. Her heart beat fast at the knowledge of Ralph’s presence; but it beat with pain, and with an extraordinary fear. She stood listening for a moment to the voices in the next room.
‘Of course, I agree with you,’ she heard Ralph say, in this strange voice, to Mr Basnett. ‘But there’s more that might be done. Have you seen Judson, for instance? You should make a point of getting him.’
Mary returned with the quinine.
‘Judson’s address?’ Mr Basnett inquired, pulling out his notebook and preparing to write. For twenty minutes, perhaps, he wrote down names, addresses, and other suggestions that Ralph dictated to him. Then, when Ralph fell silent, Mr Basnett felt that his presence was not desired, and thanking Ralph for his help, with a sense that he was very young and ignorant compared with him, he said good-bye.
‘Mary,’ said Ralph, directly Mr Basnett had shut the door and they were alone together. ‘Mary,’ he repeated. But the old difficulty of speaking to Mary without reserve prevented him from continuing. His desire to proclaim his love for Katharine was still strong in him, but he had felt, directly he saw Mary, that he could not share it with her. The feeling increased as he sat talking to Mr Basnett. And yet all the time he was thinking of Katharine, and marvelling at his love. The tone in which he spoke Mary’s name was harsh.
‘What is it, Ralph?’ she asked, startled by his tone. She looked at him anxiously, and her little frown showed that she was trying painfully to understand him, and was puzzled. He could feel her groping for his meaning, and he was annoyed with her, and thought how he had always found her slow, painstaking, and clumsy. He had behaved badly to her, too, which made his irritation the more acute. Without waiting for him to answer, she rose as if his answer were indifferent to her, and began to put in order some papers that Mr Basnett had left on the table. She hummed a scrap of a tune under her breath, and moved about the room as if she were occupied in making things tidy, and had no other concern.
‘You’ll stay and dine?’ she said casually, returning to her seat.
‘No,’ Ralph replied. She did not press him any further. They sat side by side without speaking, and Mary reached her hand for her work-basket, and took her sewing and threaded a needle.
‘That’s a clever young man,’ Ralph observed, referring to Mr Basnett.
‘I’m glad you thought so. It’s tremendously interesting work, and considering everything, I think we’ve done very well. But I’m inclined to agree with you; we ought to try to be more conciliatory. We’re absurdly strict. It’s difficult to see that there may be sense in what one’s opponents say, though they are one’s opponents. Horace Basnett is certainly too uncompromising. I mustn’t forget to see that he writes that letter to Judson. You’re too busy, I suppose, to come on to our committee?’ She spoke in the most impersonal manner.
‘I may be out of town,’ Ralph replied, with equal distance of manner.
‘Our executive meets every week, of course,’ she observed. ‘But some of our members don’t come more than once a month. Members of Parliament are the worst; it was a mistake, I think, to ask them.’
She went on sewing in silence.
‘You’ve not taken your quinine,’ she said, looking up and seeing the tabloids upon the mantelpiece.
‘I don’t want it,’ said Ralph shortly.
‘Well, you know best,’ she replied tranquilly.
‘Mary, I’m a brute!’ he exclaimed. ‘Here I come and waste your time, and do nothing but make myself disagreeable.’
‘A cold coming on does make one feel wretched,’ she replied.
‘I’ve not got a cold. That was a lie. There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m mad, I suppose. I ought to have had the decency to keep away. But I wanted to see you—I wanted to tell you—I’m in love, Mary.’ He spoke the word, but, as he spoke it, it seemed robbed of substance.
‘In love, are you?’ she said quietly. ‘I’m glad, Ralph.’
‘I suppose I’m in love. Anyhow, I’m out of my mind. I can’t think, I can’t work, I don’t care a hang for anything in the world. Good Heavens, Mary! I’m in torment! One moment I’m happy; next I’m miserable. I hate her for half an hour; then I’d give my whole life to be with her for ten minutes; all the time I don’t know what I feel, or why I feel it; it’s insanity, and yet it’s perfectly reasonable.1 Can you make any sense of it? Can you see what’s happened? I’m raving, I know; don’t listen, Mary; go on with your work.’
He rose and began, as usual, to pace up and down the room. He knew that what he had just said bore very little resemblance to what he felt, for Mary’s presence acted upon him like a very strong magnet, drawing from him certain expressions which were not those he made use of when he spoke to himself, nor did they represent his deepest feelings. He felt a little contempt for himself at having spoken thus; but somehow he had been forced into speech.
‘Do sit down,’ said Mary suddenly. ‘You make me so—’ She spoke with unusual irritability, and Ralph, noticing it with surprise, sat down at once.