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he　was　lunching　TETE　A　TETE　with　Mrs。　Skelmersdale　at　her　flat。　。　。　。　The　ensuing　intimacy　was　of　an　entirely　concealed　and　respectable　nature；　but　a　certain　increased　preoccupation　in　his　manner　set　Lady　Marayne　thinking。　　He　had　as　a　matter　of　fact　been　taken　by　surprise。　Still　he　perceived　that　it　is　no　excuse　for　a　man　that　he　has　been　taken　by　surprise。　　Surprises　in　one's　own　conduct　ought　not　to　happen。　　When　they　do　happen　then　an　aristocrat　ought　to　stick　to　what　he　had　done。　　He　was　now　in　a　subtle　and　complicated　relationship　to　Mrs。　Skelmersdale；　a　relationship　in　which　her　pride　had　become　suddenly　a　matter　of　tremendous　importance。　　Once　he　had　launched　himself　upon　this　affair；　it　was　clear　to　him　that　he　owed　it　to　her　never　to　humiliate　her。　　And　to　go　back　upon　himself　now　would　be　a　tremendous　humiliation　for　her。　　You　see；　he　had　helped　her　a　little　financially。　　And　she　looked　to　him；　she　wanted　him。　。　。　。　She　wasn't；　he　knew；　altogether　respectable。　　Indeed；　poor　dear；　her　ethical　problems；　already　a　little　worn；　made　her　seem　at　times　anything　but　respectable。　　He　had　met　her　first　one　evening　at　Jimmy　Gluckstein's　when　he　was　forming　his　opinion　of　Art。　　Her　manifest　want　of　interest　in　pictures　had　attracted　him。　　And　that　had　led　to　music。　　And　to　the　mention　of　a　Clementi　piano；　that　short；　gentle；　sad；　old；　little　sort　of　piano　people　will　insist　upon　calling　a　spinet；　in　her　flat。　And　so　to　this。　。　。　。　It　was　very　wonderful　and　delicious；　this　first　indulgence　of　sense。　It　was　shabby　and　underhand。　The　great　god　Pan　is　a　glorious　god。　　（And　so　was　Swinburne。）　　And　what　can　compare　with　the　warmth　of　blood　and　the　sheen　of　sunlit　limbs？　But　Priapus。　。　。　。　She　was　the　most　subtle；　delightful　and　tender　of　created　beings。　She　had　amazing　streaks　of　vulgarity。　And　some　astonishing　friends。　Once　she　had　seemed　to　lead　the　talk　deliberately　to　money　matters。　She　loved　him　and　desired　him。　　There　was　no　doubt　of　it。　There　was　a　curious　effect　about　her　as　though　when　she　went　round　the　corner　she　would　become　somebody　else。　　And　a　curious　recurrent　feeling　that　round　the　corner　there　was　somebody　else。　He　had　an　extraordinary　feeling　that　his　mother　knew　about　this　business。　　This　feeling　came　from　nothing　in　her　words　or　acts；　but　from　some　indefinable　change　in　her　eyes　and　bearing　towards　him。　But　how　could　she　know？　It　was　unlikely　that　she　and　Mrs。　Skelmersdale　would　ever　meet；　and　it　seemed　to　him　that　it　would　be　a　particularly　offensive　incident　for　them　to　meet。　There　were　times　now　when　life　took　on　a　grey　and　boring　quality　such　as　it　had　never　had　before　he　met　Mrs。　Skelmersdale；　and　the　only　remedy　was　to　go　to　her。　　She　could　restore　his　nervous　tranquillity；　his　feeling　of　solidity　and　reality；　his　pride　in　himself。　　For　a　time；　that　is。　Nevertheless　his　mind　was　as　a　whole　pervaded　by　the　feeling　that　he　ought　not　to　have　been　taken　by　surprise。　And　he　had　the　clearest　conviction　in　his　mind　that　if　now　he　could　be　put　back　again　to　the　day　before　that　lunch。　。　。　。　No！　he　should　not　have　gone　there　to　lunch。　He　had　gone　there　to　see　her　Clementi　piano。　Had　he　or　had　he　not　thought　beforehand　of　any　other　possibility？　On　a　point　so　vital　his　memory　was　curiously　unsure。

8

The　worry　and　disorganization　of　Benham's　life　and　thoughts　increased　as　the　spring　advanced。　　His　need　in　some　way　to　pull　things　together　became　overpowering。　　He　began　to　think　of　Billy　Prothero；　more　and　more　did　it　seem　desirable　to　have　a　big　talk　with　Billy　and　place　everything　that　had　got　disturbed。　　Benham　thought　of　going　to　Cambridge　for　a　week　of　exhaustive　evenings。　Small　engagements　delayed　that　expedition。　。　。　。　Then　came　a　day　in　April　when　all　the　world　seemed　wrong　to　Benham。　He　was　irritable；　his　will　was　unstable；　whatever　presented　itself　to　be　done　presented　itself　as　undesirable；　he　could　settle　to　nothing。　　He　had　been　keeping　away　from　Mrs。　Skelmersdale　and　in　the　morning　there　came　a　little　note　from　her　designed　to　correct　this　abstention。　　She　understood　the　art　of　the　attractive　note。　　But　he　would　not　decide　to　go　to　her。　　He　left　the　note　unanswered。　Then　came　his　mother　at　the　telephone　and　it　became　instantly　certain　to　Benham　that　he　could　not　play　the　dutiful　son　that　evening。　　He　answered　her　that　he　could　not　come　to　dinner。　　He　had　engaged　himself。　　〃Where？〃　〃With　some　men。〃　There　was　a　pause　and　then　his　mother's　voice　came；　flattened　by　disappointment。　　〃Very　well　then；　little　Poff。　　Perhaps　I　shall　see　you　to…morrow。〃　He　replaced　the　receiver　and　fretted　back　into　his　study；　where　the　notes　on　aristocracy　lay　upon　his　desk；　the　notes　he　had　been　pretending　to　work　over　all　the　morning。　〃Damned　liar！〃　he　said；　and　then；　〃Dirty　liar！〃　　He　decided　to　lunch　at　the　club；　and　in　the　afternoon　he　was　moved　to　telephone　an　appointment　with　his　siren。　　And　having　done　that　he　was　bound　to　keep　it。　About　one　o'clock　in　the　morning　he　found　himself　walking　back　to　Finacue　Street。　　He　was　no　longer　a　fretful　conflict　of　nerves；　but　if　anything　he　was　less　happy　than　he　had　been　before。　　It　seemed　to　him　that　London　was　a　desolate　and　inglorious　growth。　London　ten　years　ago　was　much　less　nocturnal　than　it　is　now。　　And　not　so　brightly　lit。　　Down　the　long　streets　came　no　traffic　but　an　occasional　hansom。　　Here　and　there　a　cat　halted　or　bolted　in　the　road。　　Near　Piccadilly　a　policeman　hovered　artfully　in　a　doorway；　and　then　came　a　few　belated　prostitutes　waylaying　the　passers…by；　and　a　few　youths　and　men；　wearily　lust　driven。　As　he　turned　up　New　Bond　Street　he　saw　a　figure　that　struck　him　as　familiar。　　Surely！it　was　Billy　Prothero！　　Or　at　any　rate　it　was　astonishingly　like　Billy　Prothero。　　He　glanced　again　and　the　likeness　was　more　doubtful。　　The　man　had　his　back　to　Benham；　he　was　halting　and　looking　back　at　a　woman。　By　some　queer　flash　of　intuition　it　came　to　Benham　that　even　if　this　was　not　Prothero；　still　Prothero　did　these　things。　　It　might　very　well　be　Prothero　even；　though；　as　he　now　saw；　it　wasn't。　　Everybody　did　these　things。　。　。　。　It　came　into　Benham's　head　for　the　first　time　that　life　could　be　tiresome。　This　Bond　Street　was　a　tiresome　place；　with　its　shops　all　shut　and　muffled；　its　shops　where　in　the　crowded　daytime　one　bought　costly　furniture；　costly　clothes；　costly　scent；　sweets；　bibelots；　pictures；　jewellery；　presents　of　all　sorts；　clothes　for　Mrs。　Skelmersdale；　sweets　for　Mrs。　Skelmersdale；　presents　for　Mrs。　Skelmersdale；　all　the　elaborate　fittings　and　equipage　ofTHAT！　〃Good　night；　dear；〃　a　woman　drifted　by　him。　〃I've　SAID　good　night；〃　he　cried；　〃I've　SAID　good　night；〃　and　so　went　on　to　his　flat。　　The　unquenchable　demand；　the　wearisome　insatiability　of　sex！　　When　everything　else　has　gone；　then　it　shows　itself　bare　in　the　bleak　small　hours。　　And　at　first　it　had　seemed　so　light　a　matter！　　He　went　to　bed；　feeling　dog…tired；　he　went　to　bed　at　an　hour　and　with　a　finished　completeness　that　Merkle　would　have　regarded　as　entirely　becoming　in　a　young　gentleman　of　his　position。　And　a　little　past　three　o'clock　in　the　morning　he　awoke　to　a　mood　of　indescribable　desolation。　　He　awoke　with　a　start　to　an　agony　of　remorse　and　self…reproach。

9

For　a　time　he　lay　quite　still　staring　at　the　darkness；　then　he　groaned　and　turned　over。　　Then；　suddenly；　like　one　who　fancies　he　hears　a　strange　noise；　he　sat　up　in　bed　and　listened。〃Oh；　God！〃　he　said　at　last。　And　then：　〃Oh！　　The　DIRTINESS　of　life！　　The　dirty　muddle　of　life！　〃What　are　we　doing　with　life？　　What　are　we　all　doing　with　life？　〃It　isn't　only　this　poor　Milly　business。　　This　only　brings　it　to　a　head。　　Of　course　she　wants　money。　。　。　。〃　His　thoughts　came　on　again。　〃But　the　ugliness！　〃Why　did　I　begin　it？〃　He　put　his　hands　upon　his　knees　and　pressed　his　eyes　against　the　backs　of　his　hands　and　so　remained　very　still；　a　blankness　beneath　his　own　question。　After　a　long　interval　his　mind　moved　again。　And　now　it　was　as　if　he　looked　upon　his　whole　existence；　he　seemed　to　see　in　a　large；　clear；　cold　comprehensiveness；　all　the　wasted　days；　the　fruitless　activities；　the　futilities；　the　perpetual　postponements　that　had　followed　his　coming　to　London。　　He　saw　it　all　as　a　joyless　indulgence；　as　a　confusion　of　playthings　and　undisciplined　desires；　as　a　succession　of　days　that　began　amiably　and　weakly；　that　became　steadily　more　crowded　with　ignoble　and　trivial　occupations；　that　had　sunken　now　to　indignity　and　uncleanness。　　He　was　overwhelmed　by　that　persuasion；　which　only　freshly　soiled　youth　can　feel　in　its　extreme　intensity；　that　life　was　slipping　away　from　him；　that　the　sands　were　running　out；　that　in　a　little　while　his　existence　would　be　irretrievably　lost。　By　some　trick　of　the　imagination　he　saw　life　as　an　interminable　Bond　Street；　lit　up　by　night　lamps；　desolate；　full　of　rubbish；　full　of　the　very　best　rubbish；　trappings；　temptations；　and　down　it　all　he　drove；　as　the　damned　drive；　wearily；　inexplicably。　WHAT　ARE　WE　UP　TO　WITH　LIFE！　　WHAT　ARE　WE　MAKING　OF　LIFE！　But　hadn't　he　intended　to　make　something　tremendous　of　life？　　Hadn't　he　come　to　London　trailing　a　glory？　。　。　。　He　began　to　remember　it　as　a　project。　　It　was　the　project　of　a　great　World…State　sustained　by　an　aristocracy　of　noble　men。　　He　was　to　have　been　one　of　those　men；　too　fine　and　far…reaching　for　the　dull