THE LAST ARABIAN NIGHT 527

his rather prominent nose; dried blood caked about the
nostrils; a long smear down one cheek and just above
one eyebrow. The eyes, red-rimmed, stared back at him
in despair. In all his life, he had never hated himself
as much as he did then. The cracked face in the black
wooden frame began to twitch a little, and he banished
it. The water he had used before going out was still in
the basin, and now he soaped his hands in it and rubbed
them over his face, until his eyes smarted. When he had
finished wiping his face, he looked at it again in the
mirror, and found that the smears and dried blood had
gone, but that the bruise was more marked than before.
He did not look long. His face, pale and silly, disgusted
him. Going through his pockets, he discovered a
crumpled cigarette and had the first smoke for several
hours. He remembered the last one, when he was on
his way to Maida Vale, not five hours ago. Not five
hours ago! A hundred years ago.

The haze had completely vanished from his mind,
leaving a dreadful clarity. He saw himself quite clearly,
and loathed what he saw. He knew now that Lena was
simply a little flirt, who had happened to be bored, her
friends being away, when he first called at the flat with
the money, and had amused herself with him for a few
hours because she had nothing better to do and, for the
time being, his obvious worship entertained her. Then
the minute somebody better came along, she had
dropped him at once, and had afterwards been so
annoyed that she had disliked the very sight of him.
Now it seemed all quite clear, and it was unbelievable
that he could not see it like that before, that he could
have gone on dreaming away and hanging about to see
her and deluding himself. He did not even hate her