and twopence, and I found myself with only ninepence in my pocket. I had
to borrow half a crown, from Jevons. You mayn't see anything very
dreadful in that. I didn't at the time, and there wasn't. The dreadful
thing was that I forgot to pay him back.

Yes. Something happened that put Jevons and his half-crown out of my head
for long enough. I forgot to pay him, and he had to go without his dinner
for three nights in consequence. It was his last half-crown.

He told me this as an immense joke, long afterwards.

And Viola Thesiger cried.

That crying of hers, that child-like softening and breaking down under
him, in itself so unexpected (I didn't know she could do it), that
sudden and innocent catastrophe, was the first sign to me that I was done
for--wiped out. There wasn't any violence or any hysteria about it, only
grief, only pity. It was an entirely simple, gentle and beautiful
performance, and it took place in my rooms after Jevons had left us. But,
as I say, this was long afterwards. The agony of my undoing was a
horribly protracted affair.

I needn't say that what happened--I mean the thing that made me forget
all about Jevons and his half-crown--was Viola Thesiger.

I had his address, but the next day--the day after the match--was Sunday,
so I couldn't get the postal order I had meant to send him. And on Monday
she walked into my rooms at ten in the morning.

The appointment, I may remark, was for nine-thirty. I had fixed that