With a crash George sent the whole pile flying. Let him wander blindly
in the dust of imaginings rather than be tortured by the grim
austerity of ordered facts. More than this, there was one most
comfortable memory to which he desperately clung--that falter in her
voice when she had said "You understand?" Whenever, during that
evening, doubt stirred and bade him recognise himself for a fool,
George flattened the ugly spectre with the arm he contrived out of
this memory.

It was a lusty weapon.

But a fresh vexation that lies in wait for all new lovers tore him
when he got to bed. In the darkness he set his mind solely to
recalling the girl's face. The picture tantalisingly eluded him.
Generalities he could recall. She was fair, very, very fair; her hair
was shining golden; but how was it arranged? In desperation he
squirmed off to her eyes--blue; no, grey; no, blue. Damn it, he would
forget whether she were black or white in a minute. Her chin? Ah, he
had that!--white and firm and round. And her nose?--small, and a
trifle tip-tilted. And her mouth?--her mouth, oh, heaven, he could not
fix her mouth! The distracted young man tossed upon his pillow and
went elsewhere. Distinctly he could remember her little feet with
those silver buckles, quite different from any other feet. And she
held herself slim and supple. Held herself? Why, good heavens! she was
tall, and he had been thinking of her as short! This was appalling! He
might meet her and pass her by. He might ... he rushed into troubled
slumber.