CHAPTER NINE
I HAD a pretty bad night after that, and was not much in the mood for Fox on the morrow. The sight of her had dwarfed everything; the thought of her disgusted me with everything, made me out of conceit with the world—with that part of the world that had become my world. I wanted to get up into hers—and I could not see any way. The room in which Fox sat seemed to be hopelessly off the road—to be hopelessly off any road to any place; to be the end of a blind alley. One day I might hope to occupy such a room—in my shirt-sleeves, like Fox. But that was not the end of my career—not the end that I desired. She had upset me.
"You've just missed Polehampton," Fox said; "wanted to get hold of your 'Atmospheres.'"
"Oh, damn Polehampton," I said, "and particularly damn the 'Atmospheres.'"
"Willingly," Fox said, "but I told Mr. P. that you were willing if . . ."
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