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. . .
It came into Benham's head for the first time that life could be
tiresome.
This Bond Street was a tiresome place; with its shops all shut and
muffled, its shops where in the crowded daytime one bought costly
furniture, costly clothes, costly scent, sweets, bibelots, pictures,
jewellery, presents of all sorts, clothes for Mrs. Skelmersdale,
sweets for Mrs. Skelmersdale, presents for Mrs. Skelmersdale, all
the elaborate fittings and equipage of--THAT!
"Good night, dear," a woman drifted by him.
"I've SAID good night," he cried, "I've SAID good night," and so
went on to his flat. The unquenchable demand, the wearisome
insatiability of sex! When everything else has gone, then it shows
itself bare in the bleak small hours. And at first it had seemed so
light a matter! He went to bed, feeling dog-tired, he went to bed
at an hour and with a finished completeness that Merkle would have
regarded as entirely becoming in a young gentleman of his position.
And a little past three o'clock in the morning he awoke to a mood of
indescribable desolation.


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