It was ten minutes to nine. She would be in Wimbledon by 10.10. It was time he should be getting ready. Yet he remained sitting on the bed.
“I am forgetting again,” he said. “But I do not want to go. What is the good? I have only to tie a mask on for the meeting. It is too much.”
He waited and waited; his head dropped forward in a sort of sleep. Suddenly he started awake. The back of his head hurt severely.
“Goodness,” he said, “it’s getting quite dark!”
It was twenty minutes to ten. He went bewildered into the bathroom to wash in cold water and bring back his senses. His hands were sore, and his face blazed with sun inflammation. He made himself neat as usual. It was ten minutes to ten. He would be very late. It was practically dark, though these bright days were endless. He wondered whether the children were in bed. It was too late, however, to wonder.
Siegmund hurried downstairs and took his hat. He was walking down the path when the door was snatched open behind him, and Vera ran out crying:
“Are you going out? Where are you going?”
Siegmund stood still and looked at her.
“She is frightened,” he said to himself, smiling ironically.
“I am only going a walk. I have to go to Wimbledon. I shall not be very long.”
“Wimbledon, at this time!” said Vera sharply, full of suspicion.
