The moment he turned into Jermyn
Street, that beating of the heart subsided, and he felt suddenly morose.
He entered his club at the top of St. James' Street and passed at once
into the least used room. This was the library; and going to the French
section, he took down "The Three Musketeers" and seated himself in
a window, with his back to anyone who might come in. He had
taken this--his favourite romance, feeling in want of warmth and
companionship; but he did not read. From where he sat he could throw a
stone to where she was sitting perhaps; except for walls he could almost
reach her with his voice, could certainly see her. This was imbecile! A
woman he had only met twice. Imbecile! He opened the book--
"Oh, no; it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown altho' its height be taken."
"Point of five! Three queens--three knaves! Do you know that thing of
Dowson's: 'I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, in my fashion'? Better
than any Verlaine, except 'Les sanglots longs.' What have you got?"
"Only quart to the queen. Do you like the name 'Cynara'?"
"Yes; don't you?"
"Cynara! Cynara! Ye-es--an autumn, rose-petal, whirling, dead-leaf
sound."
"Good! Pipped. Shut up, Ossy--don't snore!"
"Ah, poor old dog! Let him.
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