Beowulf

her only this morning.”
“Quite, quite,” Dobbie answered vaguely; he was a bachelor and proud of it. “There’s a lot to be said for the single life, all the same.”
There was something about Dobbie, Horatio reflected, that stamped him as commercial. He was like—Rashleigh could not think of the term, then all at once the memory surged back to him—a big, vulgar trader selling blankets on the cover of a book of Indian stories, the one, he smiled to think of it now, that had frightened him so as a child. A simple mind could smash itself against that broad, impervious smile. Not that Dobbie was a bad fellow, he knew his place and kept to it, but he was a materialist. Imagine trying to explain to him the meaning of the word “ideal”!
Jim kicked a pail at the back of the counter and looked up guiltily at the noise. He flicked his duster over an already shiny shelf. “See the grinder’s all right,” Dobbie snapped, reopening the ledger. A merchant was busy enough these days without wasting time in idle conversation. He glanced at the clock. “Funny how much you miss a night’s sleep,” he grumbled, thinking of the glorious moment when he could cross the road and sit down in front of a pint of beer.
Horatio put a half crown on the counter deliberately, though he had some change in his pocket. The longer that he could remain in the warm shop the better; the hardwood crates with their exotic labels, French or Chinese, suggested the ships that he had sketched for fifty years. Why, he could see the Solent in front of him again, the short blue waves slapping the little tugs and beyond them, an etching rather than a water colour, for the lines were so exquisite, the bow of a liner, Asia-bound.
“I think I must be due for my tea.” Horatio started, for he had not heard the door click, and looked up, a little suspiciously, at the grey-haired stranger beside him.
“Yes, Colonel Ferguson,” Dobbie thumbed over a dozen dirty pages fastened with a clip, “you deposited your coupons, didn’t you?” He extracted a paper and looked at it. “Half a pound. Will you take it today?”
“Please. You had a bad time last night, I am afraid?” “I miss my sleep. We had quite a blaze in the Square.” “It’s marvellous to me the way that people stand it.” “Well, as one of our Ministers remarked the other day, what else is there to do? It isn’t war, though, it’s murder.” Dobbie blew his nose violently, an aggressively white handkerchief floating like a flag against the dust. “Anything more I can do for you, Mr. Rashleigh?” he inquired, for Horatio was still fumbling with his change.
“No, no, thank you.” Rashleigh slid the coins into his pocket. If he had still been able to afford the six and twopenny China, no tradesman would have dared dismiss him in such a manner. Colonel Ferguson! He gazed icily at his neighbour whilst buttoning his coat. Just because the man had a military title, though with his blue, far-off-looking eyes he seemed more of a sailor, Dobbie wanted to clear the coast, no doubt, before handing him something from “under the counter.” That was the worst of war, the artists suffered first. Horatio turned, almost knocking over the scarlet canister painted with pansies that held a ball of string, and stamped into the street. He would lose himself, and that was something these other people could not do, painting a petite water colour in case Miss Johnson should reply to his letter, an impression of the Golden Hind perhaps or else Rose Cottage with his dear white ducks waddling towards the pond.
“A cold morning,” Ferguson remarked, watching the merchant knot two pieces of string together; “somehow it would be easier to put up with these disturbances if we had some sun.”
“Everyone to their fancy, sir.” Dobbie sifted the tea into a bag and shook it. “Give me a sharp, December day myself.” His plump neck bulged out of its collar as he turned towards the cash register. “That will be three and a penny, or shall I book it to your account?”
Unlike Horatio, Colonel Ferguson preferred to shop as expeditiously as possible. He put down the exact amount, thrust his parcel into his pocket, and with a brisk “Good morning” left, closing the door carefully behind him. Fire fighting must be a new experience for a man like Dobbie, and he did not look as if he were a fellow who was used to discomfort. He was making a good job of it all the same, the Colonel thought; it was wonderful the way these wardens had tackled the crisis. He crossed the street and turned up towards the park. It would be deserted, but he meant to round the Serpentine for it would be fatal to give up exercise just because this raw, damp, miserable climate took away the heart for it. He had never had to force himself to walk in Lausanne; there he had known the hills from the first wild clump of chicory up to the highest hepaticas, but today he would be as shivery when he got indoors as he was now, having just had breakfast. It was not age, he could swear it was not age. Why, he had felt as gay and young in Lausanne as if he had been fourteen, with life—and the East—still in front of him.
England had changed. It was less familiar, certainly less friendly, than the Continent. There were still the old colours in the fabric; people stood up nightly to the raids as if they were merely thunderstorms, but there was a new, ugly, bureaucratic class without guts and without what he called “empire imagination.” They laughed at his fifty years of service as if he had been some petty tax collector. He was still fuming over yesterday’s interview. “I don’t understand, sir, why you returned to London,”