VII

Noel went back to her hospital after a week’s rest.  George had done more for her than he suspected, for his saying:  “Life’s a huge wide adaptable thing!” had stuck in her mind.  Did it matter what happened to her?  And she used to look into the faces of the people she met, and wonder what was absorbing them.  What secret griefs and joys were they carrying about with them?  The loneliness of her own life now forced her to this speculation concerning others, for she was extraordinarily lonely; Gratian and George were back at work, her father must be kept at bay; with Leila she felt ill at ease, for the confession had hurt her pride; and family friends and acquaintances of all sorts she shunned like the plague.  The only person she did not succeed in avoiding was Jimmy Fort, who came in one evening after dinner, bringing her a large bunch of hothouse violets.  But then, he did not seem to matter—­too new an acquaintance, too detached.  Something he said made her aware that he had heard of her loss, and that the violets were a token of sympathy.  He seemed awfully kind that evening, telling her “tales of Araby,” and saying nothing which would shock her father.  It was wonderful to be a man and roll about the world as he had, and see all life, and queer places, and people—­Chinamen, and Gauchos, and Boers, and Mexicans.  It gave her a kind of thirst.  And she liked to watch his brown, humorous face; which seemed made of dried leather.  It gave her the feeling that life and experience were all that mattered, doing and seeing things; it made her own trouble seem smaller; less important.  She squeezed his hand when she said good night:  “Thank you for my violets and for coming; it was awfully kind of you!  I wish I could have adventures!” And he answered:  “You will, my dear fairy princess!” He said it queerly and very kindly.

Fairy Princess!  What a funny thing to call her!  If he had only known!

There were not many adventures to be had in those regions where she washed up.  Not much “wide and adaptable life” to take her thoughts off herself.  But on her journeys to and from the hospital she had more than one odd little experience.  One morning she noticed a poorly dressed woman with a red and swollen face, flapping along Regent Street like a wounded bird, and biting strangely at her hand.  Hearing her groan, Noel asked her what the matter was.  The woman held out the hand.  “Oh!” she moaned, “I was scrubbin’ the floor and I got this great needle stuck through my ’and, and it’s broke off, and I can’t get it out.  Oh!  Oh!” She bit at the needle-end, not quite visible, but almost within reach of teeth, and suddenly went very white.  In dismay, Noel put an arm round her, and turned her into a fine chemist’s shop.  Several ladies were in there, buying perfumes, and they looked with acerbity at this disordered dirty female entering among them.  Noel went up to a