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Page 121
CHAPTER 27.
In his bedroom at the Carlton Hotel George Bevan was packing. That
is to say, he had begun packing; but for the last twenty minutes he
had been sitting on the side of the bed, staring into a future
which became bleaker and bleaker the more he examined it. In the
last two days he had been no stranger to these grey moods, and they
had become harder and harder to dispel. Now, with the steamer-trunk
before him gaping to receive its contents, he gave himself up
whole-heartedly to gloom.
Somehow the steamer-trunk, with all that it implied of partings and
voyagings, seemed to emphasize the fact that he was going out alone
into an empty world. Soon he would be on board the liner, every
revolution of whose engines would be taking him farther away from
where his heart would always be. There were moments when the
torment of this realization became almost physical.
It was incredible that three short weeks ago he had been a happy
man. Lonely, perhaps, but only in a vague, impersonal way. Not
lonely with this aching loneliness that tortured him now. What was
there left for him? As regards any triumphs which the future might
bring in connection with his work, he was, as Mac the stage-door
keeper had said, "blarzy". Any success he might have would be but a
stale repetition of other successes which he had achieved. He would
go on working, of course, but--. The ringing of the telephone bell
across the room jerked him back to the present. He got up with a
muttered malediction. Someone calling up again from the theatre
probably. They had been doing it all the time since he had announced
his intention of leaving for America by Saturday's boat.
"Hello?" he said wearily.
"Is that George?" asked a voice. It seemed familiar, but all female
voices sound the same over the telephone.
"This is George," he replied. "Who are you?"
"Don't you know my voice?"
"I do not."
"You'll know it quite well before long. I'm a great talker."
"Is that Billie?"
"It is not Billie, whoever Billie may be. I am female, George."
"So is Billie."
"Well, you had better run through the list of your feminine friends
till you reach me."
"I haven't any feminine friends."
"None?"
"That's odd."
"Why?"
"You told me in the garden two nights ago that you looked on me as
a pal."
George sat down abruptly. He felt boneless.
"Is--is that you?" he stammered. "It can't be--Maud!"
"How clever of you to guess. George, I want to ask you one or two
things. In the first place, are you fond of butter?"
George blinked. This was not a dream. He had just still hurt most
convincingly. He needed the evidence to assure himself that he was
awake.
"Butter?" he queried. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, well, if you don't even know what butter means, I expect it's
all right. What is your weight, George?"
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