the fact were offensive.  He did not understand and make allowances for Adela.  Moreover, he thought that a woman who had been through the Divorce Court ought to be modest in demeanour towards people who had not been through the Divorce Court.  Further, Adela resented his frequent lateness for meals.  And she had said, with an uncompromising glance:  “I hope you’ll turn over a new leaf when we get into the new house.”  And he had replied, with an uncompromising glance:  “Perhaps I shan’t get into the new house.”  Nothing else.  But that ended it.  After that both felt that mutual detestation had set in.  John Orgreave was not implicated in the discreet rupture.  Possibly he knew of it; possibly he didn’t; he was not one to look for trouble, and he accepted the theory that it was part of George’s vital scheme to inhabit Chelsea.  And then Adela, all fluffiness and winsomeness, had called, in the previous week, at Russell Square and behaved like a woman whose sole aim in life is to please and cosset men of genius.  “I shall be dreadfully hurt if you don’t come to one of my Sunday lunches, George!” she had said.  And also:  “We miss you, you know,” and had put her head on one side.

Marguerite had thoroughly approved his acceptance of the invitation.  She thought that he ‘ought’ to accept.  He had promised, as she had an urgent design to do, not to arrive at the studio before 8 p.m., and he had received a note from her that morning to insist on the hour.

II

The roads were covered with a very even, very thin coating of mud; it was as though a corps of highly skilled house-painters had laid on the mud, and just vanished.  The pavements had a kind of yellowish-brown varnish.  Each of the few trees that could be seen—­and there were a few—­carried about six surviving leaves.  The sky was of a blue-black with golden rents and gleams that travelled steadily eastwards.  Except the man with newspapers at the corner of Alexandra Grove, scarcely a sign of life showed along the vistas of Fulham Road; but the clock over the jeweller’s was alive and bearing the usual false witness.  From the upper open galleries of the Workhouse one or two old men and old women in uniform looked down indifferently upon the free world which they had left for ever.  Then an omnibus appeared faintly advancing from the beautiful grey distance of the straight and endless street.  George crossed the road on his way towards Redcliffe Gardens and Earl’s Court.  He was very smart, indeed smarter than ever, having produced in himself quite naturally and easily a fair imitation of the elegant figures which, upon his visits to the restaurant-building in Piccadilly, he had observed airing themselves round about Bond Street.  His hair was smooth like polished marble; his hat and stick were at the right angle; his overcoat was new, and it indicated the locality of his waist; the spots of colour in his attire complied with the operative decrees.  His young face had in it nothing that obviously separated him from the average youth of his clothes.  Nobody would have said of him, at a glance, that he might be a particularly serious individual.  And most people would have at once classed him as a callow pleasure-seeking person in the act of seeking pleasure.