P. G. Wodehouse: The Man Upstairs and Other Stories

14. THREE FROM DUNSTERVILLE (continued)

She hurried on. This was her opening, but she felt nervous. The subject of Eddy had not come up between them since that memorable conversation a week before, and she was uncertain of her ground.

'I wish you liked Eddy, Joe,' she said. 'He's very fond of you, and it seems such a shame that--I mean--we're all from the same old town, and--oh, I know I put it badly, but--'

'I think you put it very well,' said Joe; 'and if I could like a man to order I'd do it to oblige you. But--well, I'm not going to keep harping on it. Perhaps you'll see through Eddy yourself one of these days.'

A sense of the hopelessness of her task oppressed Mary. She put on her hat without replying, and turned to go.

At the door some impulse caused her to glance back, and as she did so she met his eye, and stood staring. He was looking at her as she had so often seen him look three years before in Dunsterville--humbly, appealingly, hungrily.

He took a step forward. A sort of panic seized her. Her fingers were on the door-handle. She turned it, and the next moment was outside.

She walked slowly down the street. She felt shaken. She had believed so thoroughly that his love for her had vanished with his shyness and awkwardness in the struggle for success in New York. His words, his manner--everything had pointed to that. And now--it was as if those three years had not been. Nothing had altered, unless it were--herself.

Had she altered? Her mind was in a whirl. This thing had affected her like some physical shock. The crowds and noises of the street bewildered her. If only she could get away from them and think quietly--

And then she heard her name spoken, and looked round, to see Eddy.

'Glad you could come,' he said. 'I've something I want to talk to you about. It'll be quiet at Stephano's.'