CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ramhamcameinitwasplain,eventotheyoungSwisswaiter,thattherewasabargainbetweenthem.Nickhitchedhisclothestogetherclumsilyranhisfingersthroughhishairsatdown,toanordeal,nervously.Shelookedathimandsetofflaughinglaughed—laughed—laughed.TheyoungSwisswaiter,standingwithcrossedlegsbythepillar,laughedtoo. ThedooropenedincametheroarofRegentStreet,theroaroftraffic,impersonal,unpityingandsunshinegrainedwithdirt.TheSwisswaitermustseetothenewcomers.Bramhamliftedhisglass. "He'slikeJacob,"saidFlorinda,lookingatthenewcomer. "Thewayhestares."Shestoppedlaughing. Jacob,leaningforward,drewaplanoftheParthenoninthedustinHydePark,anetworkofstrokesatleast,whichmayhavebeentheParthenon,oragainamathematicaldiagram.Andwhywasthepebblesoemphaticallygroundinatthecorner?ItwasnottocounthisnotesthathetookoutawadofpapersandreadalongflowingletterwhichSandrahadwrittentwodaysagoatMiltonDowerHousewithhisbookbeforeherandinhermindthememoryofsomethingsaidorattempted,somemomentinthedarkontheroadtotheAcropoliswhich(suchwashercreed)matteredforever. "Heis,"shemused,"likethatmaninMoliere." ShemeantAlceste.Shemeantthathewassevere.Shemeantthatshecoulddeceivehim. "OrcouldInot?"shethought,puttingthepoemsofDonnebackinthebookcase."Jacob,"shewenton,goingtothewindowandlookingoverthespottedflower-bedsacrossthegrasswherethepiebaldcowsgrazedunderbeechtrees,"Jacobwouldbeshocked." Theperambulatorwasgoingthroughthelittlegateintherailing.Shekissedherhanddirectedbythenurse,Jimmywavedhis. "HE'Sasmallboy,"shesaid,thinkingofJacob. Andyet—Alceste? "Whatanuisanceyouare!"Jacobgrumbled,stretchingoutfirstonelegandthentheotherandfeelingineachtrouser-pocketforhischairticket. "Iexpectthesheephaveeatenit,"hesaid."Whydoyoukeepsheep?" "Sorrytodisturbyou,sir,"saidtheticket-collector,hishanddeepintheenormouspouchofpence. "Well,Ihopetheypayyouforit,"saidJacob."Thereyouare.No.Youcansticktoit.Goandgetdrunk." Hehadpartedwithhalf-a-crown,tolerantly,compassionately,withconsiderablecontemptforhisspecies. EvennowpoorFannyElmerwasdealing,asshewalkedalongtheStrand,inherincompetentwaywiththisverycareless,indifferent,sublimemannerhehadoftalkingtorailwayguardsorportersorMrs.Whitehorn,whensheconsultedhimaboutherlittleboywhowasbeatenbytheschoolmaster. Sustainedentirelyuponpicturepostcardsforthepasttwomonths,Fanny'sideaofJacobwasmorestatuesque,noble,andeyelessthanever.ToreinforcehervisionshehadtakentovisitingtheBritishMuseum,where,keepinghereyesdowncastuntilshewasalongsideofthebatteredUlysses,sheopenedthemandgotafreshshockofJacob'spresence,enoughtolastherhalfaday.Butthiswaswearingthin.Andshewrotenow—poems,lettersthatwereneverposted,sawhisfaceinadvertisementsonhoardings,andwouldcrosstheroadtoletthebarrel-organturnhermusingstorhapsody.Butatbreakfast(shesharedroomswithateacher),whenthebutterwassmearedabouttheplate,andtheprongsoftheforkswereclottedwitholdeggyolk,sherevisedthesevisionsviolentlywas,intruth,verycrosswaslosinghercomplexion,asMargeryJacksontoldher,bringingthewholethingdown(asshelacedherstoutboots)toalevelofmother-wit,vulgarity,andsentiment,forshehadlovedtooandbeenafool. "One'sgodmothersoughttohavetoldone,"saidFanny,lookinginatthewindowofBacon,themapseller,intheStrand—toldonethatitisnousemakingafussthisislife,theyshouldhavesaid,asFannysaiditnow,lookingatthelargeyellowglobemarkedwithsteamshiplines. "Thisislife.Thisislife,"saidFanny. "Averyhardface,"thoughtMissBarrett,ontheothersideoftheglass,buyingmapsoftheSyriandesertandwaitingimpatientlytobeserved."Girlslookoldsosoonnowadays." Theequatorswambehindtears. "Piccadilly?"Fannyaskedtheconductoroftheomnibus,andclimbedtothetop.Afterall,hewould,hemust,comebacktoher.