That at least is how, in those earliest days, I explained my obsession to myself, but looking at it now, down the long, mirrored corridor of cumulative emotion, I see no beginning to the perspective. There is in the apprehension of woman’s beauty an exquisite, early intimation of loveliness when, seeing some face, strange or familiar, one gains, suddenly, a further glimpse and foresees, out of a thousand possible futures, how it might be transfigured by love; the vision is often momentary and transient, never to return in waking life, or else precipitately succeeded by the reality, and so forgotten. With Lucy—her grace daily more encumbered by her pregnancy; deprived of sex, as women are, by its own fulfilment—the vision was extended and clarified until, with no perceptible transition, it became the reality. But I cannot say when it first appeared. Perhaps, that evening, when she said, about the Composed Hermitage in the Chinese Taste, “I can’t think why John should want to have a house like that,” but it came without surprise; I had sensed it on its way, as an animal, still in profound darkness and surrounded by all the sounds of night, will lift its head, sniff, and know, inwardly, that dawn is near. Meanwhile, I moved for advantage as in a parlour game.

Julia brought me success. Our meeting, so far from disillusioning her, made her cult of me keener and more direct. It was no fault of mine, I assured Roger, when he came to grumble about it; I had not been in the least agreeable to her; indeed towards the end of the evening I had been openly savage.

“The girl’s a masochist,” he said, adding with deeper gloom, “and Lucy says she’s a virgin.”

“There’s plenty of time for her. The two troubles are often cured simultaneously.”

“That’s all very well, but she’s staying another ten days. She never stops talking about you.”

“Does Lucy mind?”

“Of course she minds. It’s driving us both nuts. Does she write you a lot of letters?”

“Yes.”

“What does she say?”

“I don’t read them. I feel as though they were meant for somebody else. Besides they’re in pencil.”

“I expect she writes them in bed. No one’s ever gone for me like that.”

“Nor for me,” I said. “It’s not really at all disagreeable.”

“I daresay not,” said Roger. “I thought only actors and sex-novelists and clergymen came in for it.”

“No, no, anybody may—scientists, politicians, professional cyclists—anyone whose name gets into the papers. It’s just that young girls are naturally religious.”

“Julia’s eighteen.”

“She’ll get over it soon. She’s been stirred up by suddenly meeting me in the flesh after two or three years’ distant devotion. She’s a nice child.”

“That’s all very well,” said Roger, returning sulkily to his original point. “It isn’t Julia I’m worried about, it’s ourselves, Lucy and me—she’s staying another ten days. Lucy says you’ve got to be nice about it, and come out this evening, the four of us. I’m sorry, but there it is.”

So for a week I went often to Victoria Square, and there was the beginning of a half-secret joke between Lucy and me in Julia’s devotion. While I was there Julia sat smug and gay; she was a child of enchanting prettiness; when I was absent, Roger told me, she moped a good deal and spent much time in her bedroom writing and destroying letters to me. She talked about herself, mostly, and her sister and family. Her father was a major and they lived at Aldershot; they would have to stay there all the year round now that Lucy no longer needed their company in London. She did not like Roger. “He’s not very nice about you,” she said.

“Roger and I are like that,” I explained. “We’re always foul about each other. It’s our fun. Is Lucy nice about me?”

“Lucy’s an angel,” said Julia, “that’s why we hate Roger so.”

Finally there was the evening of Julia’s last party. Eight of us went to dance at a restaurant. Julia was at first very gay, but her spirits dropped towards the end of the evening. I was living in Ebury Street; it was easy for me to walk home from Victoria Square, so I went back with them and had a last drink. “Lucy’s promised to leave us alone, just for a minute, to say good-bye,” Julia whispered.

When we were alone, she said, “It’s been absolutely wonderful the last two weeks. I didn’t know it was possible to be so happy. I wish you’d give me something as a kind of souvenir.”

“Of course. I’ll send you one of my books, shall I?”

“No,” she said, “I’m not interested in your books any more. At least, of course, I am, terribly, but I mean it’s you I love.”

“Nonsense,” I said.

“Will you kiss me, once, just to say good-bye.”

“Certainly not.”

Then she said suddenly, “You’re in love with Lucy, aren’t you?”

“Good heavens, no. What on earth put that into your head?”

“I can tell. Through loving you so much, I expect. You may not know it, but you are. And it’s no good. She loves that horrid Roger. Oh, dear, they’re coming back. I’ll come and say good-bye to you tomorrow, may I?”

“No.”

“Please. This hasn’t been how I planned it at all.”

Then Roger and Lucy came into the room with a sly look as though they had been discussing what was going on and how long they should give us. So I shook hands with Julia and went home.

She came to my rooms at ten next morning. Mrs. Legge, the landlady, showed her up. She stood in the door, swinging a small parcel. “I’ve got five minutes,” she said, “the taxi’s waiting. I told Lucy I had some last-minute shopping.”

“You know you oughtn’t to do this sort of thing.”

“I’ve been here before. When I knew you were out. I pretended I was your sister and had come to fetch something for you.”

“Mrs. Legge never said anything to me about it.”

“No. I asked her not to. In fact I gave her ten shillings. You see she caught me at it.”

“At what?”

“Well, it sounds rather silly. I was in your bedroom, kissing things—you know, pillows, pajamas, hair brushes. I’d just got to the washstand and was kissing your razor when I looked up and found Mrs. Whatever-she’s-called standing in the door.”

“Good God, I shall never be able to look her in the face again.”

“Oh, she was quite sympathetic. I suppose I must have looked funny, like a goose grazing.” She gave a little, rather hysterical giggle, and added, “Oh, John, I do love you so.”

“Nonsense. I shall turn you out if you talk like that.”

“Well, I do. And I’ve got you a present.” She gave me the square parcel. “Open it.”

“I shan’t accept it,” I said unwrapping a box of cigars.

“But you must. You see, they’d be no good to me, would they? Are they good ones?”

“Yes,” I said, looking at the box. “Very good ones indeed.”

“The best?”

“Quite the best, but…”

“That’s what the man in the shop said. Smoke one now.”

“Julia dear, I couldn’t. I’ve only just finished breakfast.”

She saw the point of that. “When will you smoke the first one? After luncheon? I’d like to think of you smoking the first one.”

“Julia, dear, it’s perfectly sweet of you, but I can’t, honestly…”

“I know what you’re thinking, that I can’t afford it. Well, that’s all right. You see, Lucy gave me five pounds yesterday to buy a hat. I thought she would—she often does. But I had to wait and be sure. I’d got them ready, hidden yesterday evening. I meant to give you them then. But I never got a proper chance. So here they are.” And then, as I hesitated, with rising voice, “Don’t you see I’d much rather give you cigars than have a new hat? Don’t you see I shall go back to Aldershot absolutely miserable, the whole time in London quite spoilt, if you won’t take them?”

She had clearly been crying that morning and was near tears again.

“Of course I’ll take them,” I said. “I think it’s perfectly sweet of you.”

Her face cleared in sudden, infectious joy.