THEY GO HO ME 571

Never before had she felt such bitter contempt for her-
self. She could have cried and cried, not because he had
gone and she would probably never set eyes on him
again, but because his sudden indifference, at this time
of all times, left her feeling pitiably small and silly. The
misery of it was like the onslaught of some unexpected,
terrible disease. Her mingled pride bled and ached in-
side her, so that she felt faint.

That was why she did not return, as a sudden impulse
commanded her to do, to the station and take the first
train anywhere, to get away for the week-end at any cost
from London and the Club. She could not do it; all
energy and initiative were drained away; she was too
tired. She found a No. 2 bus, climbed on top, and then
watched, with smarting eyes that refused to see anything
properly, the glitter and blue murk of half London go
lumbering past, Hyde Park Corner, Park Lane, Oxford
Street, Baker Street, Finchley Road, all a meaningless
jumble of light and dark, offering nothing to Lilian
Matfield, no more than if it had been some Chinese
river flickering past on a cinema screen.

Once in the Club, she hurried upstairs, as if she had
stolen the suitcase she carried. Hastily, mechanically,
she washed, tidied her hair, changed her dress, powdered
her face, and then went down to the dining-room. She
did not really want food, but something impelled her to
throw herself back into the routine of the Club. But she
was careful to find one of those nondescript tables for
late-comers, at which there was little talk, and what talk
there was merely the occasional impersonal remarks of
acquaintances. She ate little, and the sight and smell of
the food, the look of everybody there, the high chatter
and clatter of the room, made her feel sick. Neverthe-