He
reassured her, told her that he would come soon again, that he would bring
Clare and so left her.
He took a cab and drove back to Chelsea in a storm of agitation. Suddenly,
out of nothing as it were, all these people, this old life had been thrust
up in front of him--had demanded, made claims. About him once again was
the old atmosphere: figures were filling his brain, the world was a wild
tossing place ... one of those Roundabouts with the hissing lights, the
screaming music, the horses going up and down. Plain enough now that the
old life was not done with. Every moment of his past life seemed to spring
before him claiming recognition. He was drunk with the desire for work. He
flung the cabman something, dashed into the little house, was in his room.
The lamp was lighted, the door was shut, there was silence, and in his
brain figures, scenes, sentences were racing--"The Stone House," neglected
for so long, had begun once more, to climb.
The hours passed, the white sheets were covered and flung aside. Dimly
through a haze, he saw Clare standing in the doorway.
"Bad old boy!"
He scarcely glanced up. "I'm not coming yet--caught by work."
"Don't be at it too late."
He made no reply.
She closed the door softly behind her.
CHAPTER V
THE IN-BETWEENS
I
Then, out of the wind and rain, came Mr.
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