It
wasn't happiness any more. He might have been a condemned man counting
the last minutes of his life. He was almost glad when it was over and her
upright figure had vanished under the arch. People began to fidget and
reach for their hats and coats. A grubby youth with a hot, red face and a
tray slung round his neck pushed his way between the benches shouting:
"Signed photographs of the c'lebrities, twopence each!" in a raucous
indifferent voice. Robert waved to him, and he took no notice.
"Hi--hi!" Robert called faintly.
The youth stopped. He was terribly bored at first, but his boredom became
a cynical amusement. There were twenty different photographs of Madame
Gloria Moretti:
Madame Moretti full face, side face, three-quarter face, on her famous
horse Arabesque, with her beautiful foot on Arabesque's prostrate form, in
evening dress, stepping into her car--a car, at any rate--and so on, with
"Gloria Moretti" scrawled nobly across every one of them. Robert bought
them all. He stuffed them into his coat pockets, into his trouser
pockets. He dropped them. He dropped the pennies and sixpences which he
tried to count into the tray with shaking fingers. He was drunk and
reckless with his despairing love. The sales-boy winked at everyone in
general.
"Takin' it 'ard, ain't 'e, the young dawg?"
People smiled tolerantly. Their smiles said as plainly as possible: "We
remember being just as silly as that," and Robert hated them.
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