I was having lunch with Maurice for the first time for two years-I had telephoned him and asked him to meet me-and my bus got held up in traffic at Stockwell and I was ten minutes late. I felt the fear of the moment I always felt in the old days, that something would happen to spoil the day, that he would be angry with me. But I had no desire to get in first now with my anger. Like a lot of other things the capacity of anger seems dead in me. I wanted to see him and ask him about Henry. Henry's been odd lately. It was strange of him to go out and drink in a pub with Maurice. Henry only drinks at home or at his club. I thought he might have talked to Maurice. Strange if he's worried about me. There's never been less cause for worry since we married first. But when I was with Maurice there didn't seem any other reason to be with him except to be with him. I found out nothing about Henry. Every now and then he tried to hurt me and he succeeded because he was really hurting himself, and I can't bear to watch him hurting himelf.
Have I broken that old promise, lunching with Maurice? A year ago I would have thought so, but I didn't think so now. I was very literal in those days because I was afraid, because I didn't know what it was all about, because I had no trust in love. We lunched at Rules and I was happy just being with him. Only for a little I was unhappy, saying good-bye to him above the grating I thought he was going to kiss me again, I longed for it, and then a fit of coughing took me and the moment passed. I knew, as he walked away, he was thinking all kinds of untrue things and he was hurt by them, and I was hurt because he was hurt.
I wanted to cry unobserved, and I went to the National Portrait Gallery, but it was student's day-there were too many people, so I went back to Maiden Lane and into the church that's always too dark to look at your neighbour. I sat there. It was quite empty except for me and a little man who came in and prayed quietly in a pew behind. I remembered the first time I had been in one of those churches and how I hated it. I didn't pray. I had prayed once too often. I said to God, as I might have said to my father, if I could ever have remembered having one, Dear God, I'm tired.
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