Twice, seeing a sliver of
light under her door as he came up the darkened stairs, he
knocked, but there was no answer, and he marched into his room
with the dignity of fury.
Numbers of times he quite gave her up, decided he wanted never
to see her again. But after one of the savagest of these
renunciations, while he was stamping defiantly down Tottenham
Court Road, he saw in a window a walking-stick that he was sure
she would like his carrying. And it cost only two-and-six.
Hastily, before he changed his mind, he rushed in and slammed
down his money. It was a very beautiful stick indeed, and of a
modesty to commend itself to Istra, just a plain straight stick
with a cap of metal curiously like silver. He was conscious
that the whole world was leering at him, demanding "What're _you_
carrying a cane for?" but he--the misunderstood--was willing
to wait for the reward of this martyrdom in Istra's approval.
The third night, as he stood at the window watching two children
playing in the dusk, there was a knock.
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