There had only been a
year or so in his life when he had been obliged to read things
which he would not have read of his own free will, and that had
been when he worked on the _Chronicle_. Could it have been that
they had given him this book of poems to review? Or--?
And then memory, in its usual eccentric way, having taken all
this time to make the first part of the journey, finished the
rest of it with one lightning swoop, and he knew.
And with the illumination came dismay. Worse than dismay. Horror.
"Gosh!" said Jimmy.
He knew now why he had thought on the occasion of their first
meeting in London that he had seen hair like Ann's before. The
mists rolled away and he saw everything clear and stark. He knew
what had happened at that meeting five years before, to which she
had so mysteriously alluded. He knew what she had meant that
evening on the boat, when she had charged one Jimmy Crocker with
having cured her of sentiment. A cold sweat sprang into being
about his temples. He could remember that interview now, as
clearly as if it had happened five minutes ago instead of five
years. He could recall the article for the _Sunday Chronicle_ which
he had written from the interview, and the ghoulish gusto with
which he had written it. He had had a boy's undisciplined sense
of humour in those days, the sense of humour which riots like a
young colt, careless of what it bruises and crushes.
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