The Romantic

in at the end o

tweed-suited body and its behaviour, squaring and swelling and tighten

rp gabled station; the black girders of the bridge; the white signal post beside it holding out a stiff, black-banded arm; the two ra

puzzle, red brown and pure bright green, dovetailed under the

u

clanking on the tiles with the harsh, joyous candour that he hated. He walked noisele

eeling for his things, with shamed, helpless gestures. She could see him tipto

d have ru

wanted, wanted to ruin herself for him, to stand, superb and reckles

u

ing out from the goods station-it would be the Cirencester ro

u

looking at the clock

e bend, under the

ace and his stare over her head when she looked at him,

afraid he would turn sentimental at the end. But no; he was settli

the seat there. She picked it u

old? If only he hadn't come there las

he wondered whether Gwinnie's mother's lumbago would last over the week-end. It was Fr

ow-on-the-Wold, what was it but a cowardly retreat?

at its mouth on the top. Nothing would matter. Certainly not this affair with Gibson Herbert. She could see clearly her immense, unique passi

out; hours; little minutes that

ice when everything went wrong all at once and the clicking o

in her den, the door open between. Suddenly she saw him standing in the doorway, looking at her. She knew then. She could feel

and took her in his arms. She lay back in his arms, c

ou must have thought of me. You must have wanted me to take you i

was lying. He always thought people were lying. Women

e of the sofa, like children, holding each other's hands and swearing never to go back on it, never to

ight oozing in at the window out of the black street; and Gibson lying on his back, besid

queer, exalted feeling that she was herself, Charl

unhappy eyes and small, sharp-pointed face,

his wife. They couldn't hurt her; she didn't care enough. She nev

never been the same thing. She coul

en then there was always something beyond it, something you looked for and missed, something you thought would come that never came. There was somet

ght I could have loved a girl with bobbed hair. A white and black girl." There

brown haired girls with wide slippery mouths. Then Effie. Then herself, with

re only one of a procession? Or was it th

The break-down, w

wife, Sharlie, my wife. We

Sharlie. I've been a brute,

her-the little innocent thing-the aw

mean she

ad enough. If she kne

't care. You said th

e was

lied,

ou wouldn't have com

you didn't

with his "Well-w

it was to have been wonderful, quiet, like a heavenly death, so that you would get a thrill out of that beauty when you remembered. All the beauty of it from the beginning, taken up

anted with me. Why couldn

dirty, go and wash yourself outside. Don't tr

t a bit

ce. This minute." He called

ly way he liked, provided he did end it. But not last night. To come crawlin

r when he had wanted to raise her salary-afterwards-and she had said "What for?"

ed to get anything out of their passion? What could you

ted. A slender blue channel of sky fl

Charlotte Redhead. Of Gibson Herbert. Even now it would be all

er in his arms. It was that. It had never been anything but that. She had wanted him to take her, and he knew it. Only, if he hadn't come to her and looked at her she

e grey front of her inn, the bow window jutting, small black shin

d left it. Bread he had broken on the greasy plate. His cup with

it'll be another woman, Sharlie. If

at he had t

dn't