But he gave her no satisfactory information: he said no more than that it was ‘all O.K.’: he was uncommunicative and inconsequent.

It was, actually, at this moment that there first dawned upon her a realisation of the quality which mainly characterised the Lieutenant – his inconsequence. He was not only inconsequent, as most human beings are, in drink: he was chronically and inveterately inconsequent. His sudden suggestion, the night before in the hall of the Rosamund Tea Rooms, that she should join him in a drink, had been inconsequent. His remark that he had spotted her first thing and had made up his mind to meet up with her had, she believed, been inconsequent. His prompt and easy relinquishing of her when his friend and the two girls had joined them had been inconsequent. Now he had on the spur of the moment decided to give her dinner, adopting an inconsequent attitude in regard to the Rosamund Tea Rooms and any social consequences whatsoever.

She was far from being in a mood to criticise this characteristic trait tonight, however. On the contrary, in her escape from the long inhibitions enclosing her at the Rosamund Tea Rooms, she was disposed to regard it as a merit, and to remind herself that she herself would be improved by a more inconsequent attitude generally. Bearing this in mind, she did not think it fitting to refuse his next offer of a drink, nor yet another offer which came a little later.

They were not up in the dining-room until half-past eight, did not begin to eat until ten to nine, and had not finished until a quarter to ten. After this he was anxious to add a final polish to his evening’s drinking with further whiskies downstairs, but the bars below were now so packed with noisy civilians and his compatriot soldiers that he allowed her to prevail upon him to abandon the project and leave the place – not, however, before he had fought his way to the bar and obtained a half-bottle of whisky for his pocket in the way of insurance. She observed that he was now drunk, but not as yet dangerously so, and she herself had enough drink inside her to fear no evil results.

Walking along arm-in-arm in the direction of the Rosamund Tea Rooms she asked him where they were going, and he said he didn’t have any notion, where were they? Then he said, ‘Let’s go and see the folks.’ She asked him what folks, and he said ‘The folks. The old guy. Let’s go and see ’em.’ At this she realised that the old guy was Mr. Thwaites and that he proposed to burst in upon the sacred after-dinner stillness of the boarding-house Lounge. Her spirits being as high and bold as they were, she was for a moment tempted to support this plan, but was wise enough to see its folly in time, and to attempt to dissuade him. He asked where in hell could they go, anyway, and she said she personally would like to go to bed. There followed an argument about this, which continued until they reached the steps of the Rosamund Tea Rooms, where it had to be continued in lowered voices. She was now hardened in her resolution to go to bed, and all at once – and again inconsequently – he consented. He himself would go into the Lounge for a bit, and then he also would go to bed.

She did not like the idea of his going into the Lounge, but it was not her responsibility or business. Also he seemed suddenly more sober, and she thought this would be the best compromise. In the hall, as he took off his overcoat, she thanked him, in whispers, for the evening, and on the stairs going up he said good-night, he’d be seeing her. She went on up to her room. She heard him entering the Lounge.

She decided to wash some stockings before going to bed. For this reason, when, a quarter of an hour later, she heard a soft knocking on the door, she was not undressed. She opened the door and found Lieutenant Pike standing in the doorway with a half-bottle of whisky in his hand. He explained that he had come up for one for the road, and had she got a glass and some water or something? She whispered he mustn’t, he must go away, he mustn’t! He said Come on, just one for the road, and she could have one too. She noticed that he was now drunk again, drunker than he had been throughout the entire evening. He was a very baffling man. She let him in and said he must be quiet, he must go and he must be quiet.

She went out on to the landing to see if anyone was about. She heard nothing, and concluding that her fellow-lodgers were all as yet in the Lounge, guessed that the situation might be retrieved if she got rid of him at once.

She came back, not knowing whether to shut the door so that nothing was heard, or to leave it open so as to defeat the charge of clandestinity. She compromised by leaving it two inches open.