“I’m too ‘eavy for you?”

“No… that is…”

“It’s a nice bed. Soft.”

She stood away from him, went to it and folded back the bedclothes carefully, then turned to look at him. She let the robe slip from her shoulders. She was well-formed, with shapely buttocks. A moment, then she sat and swung her legs under the bedclothes and lay back with her eyes closed, in what she transparently thought was a position both discreet and abandoned. A coal began to flicker brightly, casting intense but quavering shadows; a cage, the end-rails of the bed, danced on the wall behind her. Charles stood, fighting the battle in his stomach. It was the hock—he had been insane to drink it. He saw her eyes open and look at him. She hesitated, then reached out those delicate white arms. He made a gesture towards his frock coat.

After a few moments he felt a little better and began seriously to undress; he laid his clothes neatly, much more neatly than he ever did in his own room, over the back of the chair. He had to sit to unbutton his boots. He stared into the fire as he took off his trousers and the undergarment, which reached, in the fashion of those days, somewhat below his knees. But his shirt he could not bring himself to remove. The nausea returned. He gripped the lace-fringed mantelpiece, his eyes closed, fighting for control.

This time she took his delay for shyness and threw back the bedclothes as if to come and lead him to bed. He forced himself to walk towards her. She sank back again, but without covering her body. He stood by the bed and stared down at her. She reached out her arms. He still stared, conscious only of the swimming sensation in his head, the now totally rebellious fumes of the milk punch, champagne, claret, port, that damnable hock…

“I don’t know your name.”

She smiled up at him, then reached for his hands and pulled him down towards her.

“Sarah, sir.”

He was racked by an intolerable spasm. Twisting sideways he began to vomit into the pillow beside her shocked, flungback head.

For the twenty-ninth time that morning Sam caught the cook’s eye, directed his own to a row of bells over the kitchen door and then eloquently swept them up to the ceiling. It was noon. One might have thought Sam glad to have a morning off; but the only mornings off he coveted were with more attractive female company than that of the portly Mrs. Rogers.

“’E’s not ‘imself,” said the dowager, also for the twenty-ninth time. If she felt irritated, however, it was with Sam, not the young lord upstairs. Ever since their return from Lyme two days before, the valet had managed to hint at dark goings-on. It is true he had graciously communicated the news about Winsyatt; but he had regularly added “And that ain’t ‘alf of what’s a-foot.” He refused to be drawn. “There’s sartin confidences” (a word he pronounced with a long i) “as can’t be yet spoken of, Mrs. R. But things ‘as ‘appened my heyes couldn’t ‘ardly believe they was seein’.”

Sam had certainly one immediate subject for bitterness. Charles had omitted to dismiss him for the evening when he went out to see Mr. Freeman. Thus Sam had waited in and up until after midnight, only to be greeted, when he heard the front door open, by a black look from a white face.

“Why the devil aren’t you in bed?”

“’Cos you didn’t say you was dinin’ out, Mr. Charles.”

“I’ve been at my club.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And take that insolent look off your damned face.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sam held out his hands and took—or caught—the various objects, beginning with sundry bits of outdoor apparel and terminating in a sulphurous glare, that Charles threw at him. Then the master marched majestically upstairs. His mind was now very sober, but his body was still a little drunk, a fact Sam’s bitter but unseen smirk had only too plainly reflected.

“You’re right, Mrs. R. ‘E’s not ‘imself. ‘E was blind drunk last night.”

“I wouldn’t ‘ave believed it possible.”

“There’s lots o’ things yours truly wouldn’t ‘ave believed possible, Mrs. R. As ‘as ‘appened hall the same.”

“’E never wants to cry off!”

“Wild ‘osses wouldn’t part my lips, Mrs. R.” The cook took a deep-bosomed breath. Her clock ticked beside her range. Sam smiled at her. “But you’re sharp, Mrs. R. Very sharp.”

Clearly Sam’s own feeling of resentment would very soon have accomplished what the wild horses were powerless to effect. But he was saved, and the buxom Mrs. Rogers thwarted, by the bell. Sam went and lifted the two-gallon can of hot water that had been patiently waiting all morning at the back of the range, winked at his colleague, and disappeared.

There are two kinds of hangover: in one you feel ill and incapable, in the other you feel ill and lucid. Charles had in fact been awake, indeed out of bed, some time before he rang. He had the second sort of hangover. He remembered only too clearly the events of the previous night.

His vomiting had driven the already precarious sexual element in that bedroom completely out of sight and mind. His unhappily named choice had hastily risen, pulled on her gown, and then proved herself to be as calm a nurse as she had promised to be a prostitute. She got Charles to his chair by the fire, where he caught sight of the hock bottle, and was promptly sick again. But this time she had ready a basin from the washstand. Charles kept groaning his apologies between his retches.

“Most sorry… most unfortunate… something disagreed…” “It’s all right, sir, it’s all right. You just let it come.”

And let it come he had had to. She went and got her shawl and threw it round his shoulders. He sat for some time ludicrously like an old granny, crouched over the basin on his knees, his head bowed. After a while he began to feel a little better. Would he like to sleep? He would, but in his own bed. She went and looked down into the street, then left the room while he shakily got dressed. When she came back she herself had put on her clothes. He looked at her aghast.

“You are surely not… ?”

“Get you a cab, sir. If you just wait…”

“Ah yes… thank you.”

And he sat down again, while she went downstairs and out of the house. Though he was by no means sure that his nausea was past, he felt in some psychological way profoundly relieved. Never mind what his intention had been; he had not committed the fatal deed. He stared into the glowing fire; and strange as it may seem, smiled wanly.

Then there came a low cry from the next room. A silence, then the sound came again, louder this time and more prolonged. The little girl had evidently wakened. Her crying—silence, wailing, choking, silence, wailing—became intolerable. Charles went to the window and opened the curtains. The mist prevented him seeing very far. There was not a soul to be seen. He realized how infrequent the sound of horses’ hooves had become; and guessed that the girl might have to go some way to find his hansom. As he stood undecided, there was a heavy thumping on the wall from the next house. A vindictive male voice shouted angrily. Charles hesitated, then laying his hat and stick on the table, he opened the door through to that other room. He made out by the reflected light a wardrobe and an old box-trunk. The room was very small. In the far corner, beside a closed commode, was a small truckle bed. The child’s cries, suddenly renewed, pierced the small room. Charles stood in the lit doorway, foolishly, a terrifying black giant.