‘Let’s get out of this,’ he said abruptly, and at once stood up.
‘Oh, let’s!’ said Rosemary with relief.
They were in Regent Street again. Down on the left Piccadilly Circus blazed, a horrible pool of light. Rosemary’s eyes turned towards the bus stop opposite.
‘It’s half past ten,’ she said doubtfully. ‘I’ve got to be back by eleven.’
‘Oh, rot! Let’s look for a decent pub. I mustn’t miss my beer.’
‘Oh, no, Gordon! No more pubs tonight. I couldn’t drink any more. Nor ought you.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Come this way.’
He took her by the arm and began to lead her down towards the bottom of Regent Street, holding her rather tight as though afraid she would escape. For the moment he had forgotten about Ravelston. Ravelston followed, wondering whether he ought to leave them to themselves or whether he ought to stay and keep an eye on Gordon. Rosemary hung back, not liking the way Gordon was pulling at her arm.
‘Where are you taking me, Gordon?’
‘Round the corner, where it’s dark. I want to kiss you.’
‘I don’t think I want to be kissed.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘No!’
‘Yes!’
She let him take her. Ravelston waited on the corner by the Regent Palace, uncertain what to do. Gordon and Rosemary disappeared round the corner and were almost immediately in darker, narrower streets. The appalling faces of tarts, like skulls coated with pink powder, peered meaningly from several doorways. Rosemary shrank from them. Gordon was rather amused.
‘They think you’re one of them,’ he explained to her.
He stood his bottle on the pavement, carefully, against the wall, then suddenly seized her and twisted her backwards. He wanted her badly, and he did not want to waste time over preliminaries. He began to kiss her face all over, clumsily but very hard. She let him do it for a moment, but it frightened her; his face, so close to hers, looked pale, strange, and distracted. He smelt very strongly of wine. She struggled, turning her face away so that he was only kissing her hair and neck.
‘Gordon, you mustn’t!’
‘Why mustn’t I?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘What do you suppose I’m doing?’
He shoved her back against the wall, and with the careful, preoccupied movements of a drunken man, tried to undo the front of her dress. It was of a kind that did not undo, as it happened. This time she was angry. She struggled violently, fending his hand aside.
‘Gordon, stop that at once!’
‘Why?’
‘If you do it again I’ll smack your face.’
‘Smack my face! Don’t you come the Girl Guide with me.’
‘Let me go, will you!’
‘Think of last Sunday,’ he said lewdly.
‘Gordon, if you go on I’ll hit you, honestly I will.’
‘Not you.’
He thrust his hand right into the front of her dress. The movement was curiously brutal, as though she had been a stranger to him. She grasped that from the expression of his face. She was not Rosemary to him any longer, she was just a girl, a girl’s body. That was the thing that upset her. She struggled and managed to free herself from him. He came after her again and clutched her arm. She smacked his face as hard as she could and dodged neatly out of his reach.
‘What did you do that for?’ he said, feeling his cheek but not hurt by the blow.
‘I’m not going to stand that sort of thing. I’m going home. You’ll be different tomorrow.’
‘Rot! You come along with me. You’re going to bed with me.’
‘Good night!’ she said, and fled up the dark side street.
For a moment he thought of following her, but found his legs too heavy. It did not seem worth while, anyway. He wandered back to where Ravelston was still waiting, looking moody and alone, partly because he was worried about Gordon and partly because he was trying not to notice two hopeful tarts who were on patrol just behind him. Gordon looked properly drunk, Ravelston thought. His hair was tumbling down over his forehead, one side of his face was very pale and on the other there was a red smudge where Rosemary had slapped him. Ravelston thought this must be the flush of drunkenness.
‘What have you done with Rosemary?’ he said.
‘She’s gone,’ said Gordon, with a wave of his hand which was meant to explain everything. ‘But the night’s still young.’
‘Look here, Gordon, it’s time you were in bed.’
‘In bed, yes. But not alone.’
He stood on the kerb gazing out into the hideous midnight-noon. For a moment he felt quite deathly. His face was burning. His whole body had a dreadful, swollen, fiery feeling. His head in particular seemed on the point of bursting. Somehow the baleful light was bound up with his sensations. He watched the skysigns flicking on and off, glaring red and blue, arrowing up and down–the awful, sinister glitter of a doomed civilization, like the still blazing lights of a sinking ship. He caught Ravelston’s arm and made a gesture that comprehended the whole of Piccadilly Circus.
‘The lights down in hell will look just like that.’
‘I shouldn’t wonder.’
Ravelston was looking out for a disengaged taxi. He must get Gordon home to bed without further delay. Gordon wondered whether he was in joy or in agony. That burning, bursting feeling was dreadful. The sober half of him was not dead yet. Sober half still knew with ice-cold clarity what he had done and what he was doing. He had committed follies for which tomorrow he would feel like killing himself. He had squandered five pounds in senseless extravagance, he had robbed Julia, he had insulted Rosemary.
And tomorrow–oh, tomorrow, we’ll be sober! Go home, go home! cried sober half— to you! said drunken half contemptuously. Drunken half was still clamouring for a bit of fun. And drunken half was the stronger. A fiery clock somewhere opposite caught his eye. Twenty to eleven. Quick, before the pubs are shut! Haro! la gorge m’ard! Once again his thoughts moved lyrically. He felt a hard round shape under his arm, discovered that it was the Chianti bottle, and tweaked out the cork. Ravelston was waving to a taxi-driver without managing to catch his eye. He heard a shocked squeal from the tarts behind. Turning, he saw with horror that Gordon had up-ended the bottle and was drinking from it.
‘Hi! Gordon!’
He sprang towards him and forced his arm down. A gout of wine went down Gordon’s collar.
‘For God’s sake be careful! You don’t want the police to get hold of you, do you?’
‘I want a drink,’ complained Gordon.
‘But dash it! You can’t start drinking here.’
‘Take me to a pub,’ said Gordon.
Ravelston rubbed his nose helplessly. ‘Oh, God! I suppose that’s better than drinking on the pavement. Come on, we’ll go to a pub. You shall have your drink there.’
Gordon recorked his bottle carefully. Ravelston shepherded him across the circus, Gordon clinging to his arm, but not for support, for his legs were still quite steady. They halted on the island, then managed to find a gap in the traffic and went down the Haymarket.
In the pub the air seemed wet with beer. It was all a mist of beer shot through with the sickly tang of whisky. Along the bar a press of men seethed, downing with Faustlike eagerness their last drinks before eleven should sound its knell. Gordon slid easily through the crowd. He was not in a mood to worry about a few jostlings and elbowings. In a moment he had fetched up at the bar between a stout commercial traveller drinking Guinness and a tall, lean, decayed major type of man with droopy moustaches, whose entire conversation seemed to consist of ‘What ho!’ and ‘What, what!’ Gordon threw half a crown on to the beer-wet bar.
‘A quart of bitter, please!’
‘No quart pots here!’ cried the harassed barmaid, measuring pegs of whisky with one eye on the clock.
‘Quart pots on the top shelf, Effie!’ shouted the landlord over his shoulder, from the other side of the bar.
The barmaid hauled the beer-handle three times hurriedly. The monstrous glass pot was set before him. He lifted it. What a weight! A pint of pure water weighs a pound and a quarter. Down with it! Swish–gurgle! A long, long sup of beer flowed gratefully down his gullet. He paused for breath, and felt a little sickish. Come on, now for another. Swish–gurgle! It almost choked him this time. But stick it out, stick it out! Through the cascade of beer that poured down his throat and seemed to drown his ears he heard the landlord’s shout: ‘Last orders, gentlemen, please!’ For a moment he removed his face from the pot, gasped, and got his breath back. Now for the last. Swish–gurgle! A-a-ah! Gordon set down the pot. Emptied in three gulps–not bad. He clattered it on the bar.
‘Hi! Give me the other half of that–quick!’
‘What ho!’ said the major.
‘Coming it a bit, aren’t you?’ said the commercial traveller.
Ravelston, farther down the bar and hemmed in by several men, saw what Gordon was doing. He called to him, ‘Hi, Gordon!’, frowned and shook his head, too shy to say in front of
