Miriam stared her consternation.
“Ah, no,” he said, his features working with embarrassment “it is not for myself. It is my friend, the Polish Doctor, who was only now here,” Miriam gazed, plunging on through relief into a chaos of bewildered admiration.
“But you hardly know him!” she exclaimed, sitting down for more leisurely contemplation.
“That is not the point,” he said seriously, taking the chair on the other side of the little table. “Poor fellow, he is not long in London, and has almost no friends. He is working in abstruse researchings, needing much spendings on materials, and is threatened by his landlady to leave his apartments.”
“Did he tell you this?” said Miriam sceptically recalling the Polish head, its smooth cold perfect beauty and indifference.
“Most certainly he told me. He must immediately have ten pounds.”
“Perhaps you would not get so much,” persisted Miriam. “And suppose he does not pay it back?”
“You are mistaken. The watch, with the chain, is worth more than the double this sum.” His face expressed a grave simple finality.
“But it is a shame,” she cried, jealously eyeing the decoration that seemed now to have been an essential part of their many meetings. Without this mark of opulence, he would not be quite the same. …
“Why a shame?” demanded Mr. Shatov, with his little abrupt snorting chuckle. “I shall again have my watch when my father shall send me the next portion of my allowance.” He was not counting on the return of the money! Next month, with his allowance, he would have the watch and forget the incident. … Wealth made life safe for him. People could be people to him; even strangers; not threats or problems. But even a wealthy Englishman would not calmly give ten pounds to a disreputable stranger … he would suspect him even if he were not disreputable. It might be true that the Pole was in honest difficulties. But it was impossible to imagine him really working at anything. Mr. Shatov did not feel this at all. …
“I’m afraid I don’t know any pawn shops,” she said, shrinking even from the pronunciation of the word. She scanned her London. They had always been there … but she had never noticed or thought of them … “I don’t remember ever having seen one; but I know you are supposed to recognise them,” here was strange useful knowledge, something picturesque floating in from somewhere … “by three gold balls hanging outside. … I have seen one” they were talking now, the Polish Doctor was fading away. “Yes … on a bus” his wide child’s eyes were set impersonally on what she saw, “somewhere down by Ludgate Circus.”
“I will at once go there,” he said sitting leisurely back with dreaming eyes and his hands thrust into his pockets.
“Oh no,” she cried, thrusting off the disaster, “it would be closed.”
“That is bad,” he reflected. “Ach, no matter. I will write to him that I come on Monday.”
“He would not get your letter until Monday.”
“That is true. I did not think of this.”
There must be pawn shops quite near; in the Tottenham Court Road. They would still be open. Not to suggest this would be to be responsible if anything happened to the Pole. … Thrusting down through the numbed mass of her forgotten thoughts to the quick of her nature came the realisation that she was being tested and found wanting … another of those moments had come round. … She glanced into the open abyss at her own form staring up from its depths, and through her brain flew, in clear record, decisive moments of the past; her self, clearly visible, clothed as she had been clothed, her poise and bearing as she had flinched and fled. Here she was, unchanged, not caring what happened to the man, so long as her evening was not disturbed … she was a murderess. This was the hidden truth of her life. Above it her false face turned from thing to thing, happy and forgetful for years, until a moment came again to show her that she could face and let slip the risk of anything to anyone, anywhere, rather than the pain of renouncing personal realisation. Already she was moving away. A second suggestion was in her mind and she was not going to make it. She glanced enviously at the unconscious kindliness lolling in the opposite chair. It was clear to its depths; unburdened by spectres of remembered cruelty. … But there was also something else that was different … easy circumstances; the certainty, from the beginning, of self-realisation. …
“Perhaps someone in the house could tell you.” Oh stupidity; blurting out anything to hide behind the sound of voices.
“Possibly. But it is a delicate matter. I could not for instance mention this matter to Mrs. Bailey.”
“Do you like him? Didn’t you find him amongst those dreadful men looking like monkeys?”
“At this Vienna café. Ah indeed it is dreadful there upstairs.”
“He is very handsome.”
“The Poles are perhaps the most beautiful of European peoples. They have also immense courage” … unsuspicious thoughtfully talking face, lifting her up and out again into light and air. … “But the Pole is undoubtedly the most treacherous fellow in Europe.” Grave live eyes flashed across at her, easily, moulding the lounging form into shapeliness. “He is at the same time of the most distinguished mentality.” Why should anyone help a distinguished mentality to go on being treacherous? “And in particular is this true of the Polish Jew. There are in all European universities amongst the very most distinguished professors and students very many Polish Jews.” Le Juif Polonais … The Bells. It was strange to think of Polish Jews going on in modern everyday life. … But if Poles were so evil. … That was Dr. Veslovsky’s expression. Cold evil.
“There was an awful thing last week in Woburn Place.”
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Bailey told me about it. There was a girl who owed her landlady
