more one drinks the more one forgets—always vaguely.
“I began to wonder about Kate, and my little boy. She had not written to me for a long while, nor I to her, for that matter. I realised that the boy must be nearly three, and I had never seen him. Only a smudgy snap, taken in a back garden. I used to carry it about in my notecase. Then, one day Kate sent me a long letter. As she had not heard from me for so long she had started to take proceedings for divorce, on the grounds of desertion, etc. Also, she told me she had met someone who had become very attached to her and the boy. I gathered that she meant to marry him. Of course, there was nothing to say, she deserved any happiness she could get. I suppose the man had money, and, anyway, what sort of a father was I?
“I threw away the snapshot, there didn’t seem much point in getting sentimental.
“My luck changed after this; I thought life was going to offer me something at last.
“I won a lottery. It gave me a real thrill to have some cash in hand for once. I knew nothing about investments, but I resolved to make good, if such a thing were possible. I met some fellow who said he’d discovered a wonderful new process of photography—too technical to explain—but I took a great fancy to him, and we decided to travel back to England together, and start some sort of a business. He seemed thoroughly honest, mentioned the names of people I knew—well, I believed every word he said.
“I was to put my money in this photographic affair, and make a fortune. I never imagined for a moment that it was a swindle—I was completely taken in. We arrived in England, put up at the same hotel—and then he vanished. Not a trace of him, nor my money. It sounds a faked, unlikely story, doesn’t it, but I assure you it’s true.
“After that nothing will ever surprise me again; I’m prepared for anything—any mortal thing that comes along.”
Once more he became humble, small; he seemed to shrink into himself.
“Since then I’ve been unable to cope. I’ve spent my time running round, digging up old friends. People have been kind in a way, suggesting jobs, but nothing that I fancy. All a little degrading; you know how it is, if one’s been brought up in a certain way, public school and all that; I don’t know. …
“I’m lodging in Golders Green at the moment. There’s a girl there who’s been very sweet to me—and I believe I’m fond of her. But, of course, the position is hopeless, and I hate ties in any form, I must be independent.
“It’s difficult, so difficult, to know how to use one’s life. If only there was someone who could really help, really understand.”
We sat for a while in silence. I racked my brains, wondering if my uncle could do anything—if there was an opening for him in his office.
Then he leant forward suddenly, flushing a little, his eyes on his plate, and speaking in a low, hurried voice—
“If you could possibly lend me five pounds .
The Lover
It was ten-thirty on a wet morning in January. The telephone boxes were empty on the Piccadilly Circus subway, empty save for one at the right-hand corner by the entrance to Shaftesbury Avenue.
A woman stood there, her lips pressed close to the mouthpiece, the pennies clutched in her hand. She moved impatiently and flung a glance over her shoulder, and rattled the receiver.
“But I’ve repeated the number three times already. I tell you I want Gerrard 10550—Gerrard 10550.”
She bit her lip and tapped her foot nervously on the floor.
“Of course there is somebody there. Will you please ring them again.”
He turned over in bed and reached for a cigarette. He yawned, stretched himself, and fumbled for his dressing-gown. Then he flung aside the bedclothes and strolled over towards his dressing-table.
He ran the comb through his hair and peered at the dark shadows beneath his eyes. His hand wandered towards the bottle of Bromo Seltza. When the telephone rang he frowned, and, making no attempt to answer it, wandered into the bathroom. The steaming water foamed from the taps; his dressing-gown slipped to the floor.
He lay back in his bath, a large sponge pressed to his chest, and watched his pale limbs beneath the water, flabby and mushroom-coloured. The smoke from his cigarette curled towards the ceiling. Still the telephone continued to ring on the little table beside the bed.
“Yes, Gerrard 10550. Can you clear the line again? There must be some mistake.”
The woman’s voice was very weary now, flat, with an added note of supplication. She raised her eyes and read once more the rules for Public Telephone service.
He wrapped himself in a large warm towel and lit another cigarette. The rain splashed against the window. What an infernal row the telephone was making! He padded with bare feet into the bedroom.
“Hullo, what is it? Speak up; I can’t hear a word.”
The woman tilted her hat on the back of her head; her bag fell from her hand and crashed on the floor, spilling her change.
“At last! Oh, heavens, what a morning! Do you know I’ve been waiting here nearly half an hour? Were you asleep?”
“I suppose I was. What a time to ring, anyway! What d’you want?”
“What do you imagine? Don’t you realise I have crept out of the house in this pouring, filthy rain, dressed anyhow, caring for nothing, husband and children waiting at home—only to speak to you. And then because I’ve wakened you up from sleep you snap at me in this beastly way. …”
“Listen,” he said quickly, “if you want to make a scene, go and make it to somebody else and not to me. I mean to say—life’s too short. …”
“Oh! you don’t understand what I am going through because of you! I’m miserable, miserable. I
