The Hollow

And it was then, on the steps of St. Christopher's, that a sudden desperate weariness had overcome him-a hatred of all this long, slow, wearisome clinical work, and he'd thought of Henrietta. Thought of her suddenly, not as herself, but of her beauty and her freshness, her health and her radiant vitality-and the faint smell of primroses that clung about her hair.

And he had gone to Henrietta straight away, sending a curt telephone message home about being called away. He had strode into the studio and taken Henrietta in his arms, holding her to him with a fierceness that was new in their relationship.

There had been a quick startled wonder in her eyes. She had freed herself from his arms and had made him coffee. And as she moved about the studio she had thrown out desultory questions. Had he come, she asked, straight from the hospital?

He didn't want to talk about the hospital.

He wanted to make love to Henrietta and forget that the hospital and Mrs. Crabtree and Ridgeway's Disease and all the rest of the caboodle existed.

But, at first unwillingly, then more fluently, he answered her questions. And presently he was striding up and down, pouring out a spate of technical explanations and surmises. Once or twice he paused, trying to simplify-to explain.

I m "You see, you have to get a reaction-" iff Henrietta said quickly: ^^^^^B Af\ "Yes, yes, the D.L. reaction has to be positive. I understand that. Go on."

He said sharply, "How do you know about the D.L. reaction?"

"I got a book-"

"What book? Whose?"

She motioned towards the small book table.

He snorted.

"Scobell? Scobell's no good. He's fundamentally unsound. Look here, if you want to read-don't-"

She interrupted him.

"I only want to understand some of the terms you use-enough so as to understand you without making you stop to explain everything the whole time. Go on. I'm following you all right."

"Well," he said doubtfully, "remember Scobell's unsound." He went on talking. He talked for two hours and a half. Reviewing the set-backs, analyzing the possibilities, outlining possible theories. He was hardly conscious of Henrietta's presence. And yet, more than once, as he hesitated, her quick intelligence took him a step on the way, seeing, almost before he did, what he was hesitating to advance. He was interested now, and his belief in himself was creeping back. He had been right-the main theory was correct-and there were ways, more ways than one, of combating the toxic symptoms …

And then, suddenly, he was tired out.

He'd got it all clear now. He'd get on to it tomorrow morning. He'd ring up Neill, tell him to combine the two solutions and try that. Yes-try that. By God, he wasn't going to be beaten!

"I'm tired," he said abruptly. "My God,

I'm tired."

And he had flung himself down and slept-slept like the dead.

He had wakened to find Henrietta smiling at him in the morning light and making tea and he had smiled back at her.

"Not at all according to plan," he said.

"Does it matter?"

"No. No. You are rather a nice person, Henrietta." His eyes went to the bookcase. "If you're interested in this sort of thing, I'll get you the proper stuff to read."

"I'm not interested in this sort of thing.

I'm interested in you, John."

"You can't read Scobell." He took up the offending volume. "The man's a charlatan."

And she had laughed. He could not understand why his strictures on Scobell amused her so.

But that was what, every now and then, startled him about Henrietta. The sudden revelation, disconcerting to him, that she was able to laugh at him…

He wasn't used to it. Gerda took him in deadly earnest. And Veronica had never thought about anything but herself. But Henrietta had a trick of throwing her head back, of looking at him through half-closed eyes, with a sudden, tender, half-mocking little smile, as though she were saying: "Let me have a good look at this funny person called John… Let me get a long way away and look at him…"

It was, he thought, very much the same as the way she screwed up her eyes to look at her work-or a picture. It was-damn it all-it was detached. He didn't want Henrietta to be detached. He wanted Henrietta to think only of him, never to let her mind stray away from him. ("Just what you object to in Gerda, in fact," said his private imp, bobbing up again.) The truth of it was that he was completely illogical. He didn't know what he wanted. (/ want to go home… What an absurd, what a ridiculous phrase. It didn't mean anything.) In an hour or so at any rate he'd be driving out of London-forgetting about sick people with their faint, sour, "wrong" smell… sniffing wood smoke and pines and soft wet Autumn leaves… The very motion of the car would be soothing-that smooth, effortless increase of speed…