That he should see through the little variety actress was not
to be expected. Poppy was in her nature impenetrable, woman being the
ultimate fact, the inexorable necessity of thought. Supposing the
universe to be nothing more than a dance of fortuitous atoms, then
Poppy, herself a fortuitous atom, led the dance; she was the whirligig
centre towards which all things whirled. No wonder that it made him
giddy to think of her.
Suddenly out of its giddiness his brain conceived and instantly
matured a plan. A practical plan. He would catch that eleven-thirty
express all right. He would go down into Devonshire, and stay in
Devonshire till Saturday. If necessary, he would sit up with those
abominable books all Thursday night and Friday night. And on Saturday
he would return. At the worst he would only have to go down again on
Monday. He would have missed the Junior Journalists' dinner, he would
be lucky if he saw the ghost of an idea on this side Whit Sunday, but
he would have torn the heart out of his holiday.
He rose abruptly. "All right. It's a most awful nuisance, as it
happens, but I'll go."
"I'm glad you're willing to oblige me. You'll not regret it."
Isaac was really meditating something very handsome in the way of a
commission. As he looked benignly into his son's face and saw its deep
misery and repugnance, he answered his own question.
"It _is_ a woman."
BOOK II
LUCIA'S WAY
CHAPTER XIV
He wondered how much longer they were going to keep him waiting.
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