Alone, carefully refolding the kimono in its original creases, Christine wondered what the man’s name was.  She felt that the mysterious future might soon disclose a germ of happiness.

Chapter 6

THE ALBANY

G.J.  Hoape—­He was usually addressed as “G.J.” by his friends, and always referred to as “G.J.” by both friends and acquaintances—­woke up finally in the bedroom of his flat with the thought: 

“To-day I shall see her.”

He inhabited one of the three flats at the extreme northern end of the Albany, Piccadilly, W.I.  The flat was strangely planned.  Its shape as a whole was that of a cube.  Imagine the cube to be divided perpendicularly into two very unequal parts.  The larger part, occupying nearly two-thirds of the entire cubic space, was the drawing-room, a noble chamber, large and lofty.  The smaller part was cut horizontally into two storeys.  The lower storey comprised a very small hall, a fair bathroom, the tiniest staircase in London, and G.J.’s very small bedroom.  The upper storey comprised a very small dining-room, the kitchen, and servants’ quarters.

The door between the bedroom and the drawing room, left open in the night for ventilation, had been softly closed as usual during G.J.’s final sleep, and the bedroom was in absolute darkness save for a faint grey gleam over the valance of the window curtains.  G.J. could think.  He wondered whether he was in love.  He hoped he was in love, and the fact that the woman who attracted him was a courtesan did not disturb him in the least.

He was nearing fifty years of age.  He had casually known hundreds of courtesans in sundry capitals, a few of them very agreeable; also a number of women calling themselves, sometimes correctly, actresses, all of whom, for various reasons which need not be given, had proved very unsatisfactory.  But he had never loved—­unless it might be, mildly, Concepcion, and Concepcion was now a war bride.  He wanted to love.  He had never felt about any woman, not even about Concepcion, as he felt about the woman seen for a few minutes at the Marigny Theatre and then for five successive nights vainly searched for in all the chief music-halls of Paris. (A nice name, Christine!  It suited her.) He had given her up—­never expected to catch sight of her again; but she had remained a steadfast memory, sad and charming.  The encounter in the Promenade in Leicester Square was such a piece of heavenly and incredible luck that it had, at the moment, positively made him giddy.  The first visit to Christine’s flat had beatified and stimulated him.  Would the second?  Anyhow, she was the most alluring woman—­and yet apparently of dependable character!—­he had ever met.  No other consideration counted with him.