Soon after ten o'clock it
became unbearable. He found himself longing for company, the
loneliness of his little room since the departure of Beatrice had
never seemed so real a thing. He stood it as long as he could
and then, catching up his hat and stick, he set his face
eastwards, walking vigorously, and with frequent glances at the
clocks he passed.
A few minutes past eleven o'clock, he found himself once more in
that dark thoroughfare at the back of the theatre. The lamp over
the stage-door was flickering in the same uncertain manner, the
same motor-cars were there, the same crowd of young men, except
that each night they seemed to grow larger. This time he had a
few minutes only to wait. Beatrice came out among the earliest.
At the sight of her he was suddenly conscious that he had, after
all, no excuse for coming, that she would probably cross-examine
him about Elizabeth, would probably guess the secret of his
torments. He shrank back, but he was a moment too late for she
had seen him. With a few words of excuse to the others with whom
she was talking, she picked up her skirts and came swiftly across
the muddy street. Tavernake had no time to escape. He remained
there until she came, but his cheeks were hot, and he had an
uncomfortable feeling that his presence, that their meeting like
this, was an embarrassment to both of them.
"My dear Leonard," she exclaimed, "why do you hide over there?"
"I don't know," he answered simply.
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