I wasn't alarmed, but I wanted to see him. Ten minutes later I was on my way to the tube station, and in half-an-hour I was at the door of the house in Swinton Street. It was hotter in London than at Hampstead, and the night was full of lightning and rumblings of thunder. I remember how, in the poorer districts that I passed, whole families were sitting out on the pavement, chattering amongst themselves and waiting for the storm to begin. CHAPTER THREE I THE heat of that night is a sort of canvas on which everything is painted in my memory. Terry, when he came to the door and admitted me, was rather pale, and something in his eyes made me wonder if he were sorry I had come. Probably, if I hadn't been fairly drunk, I should soon have left him; but I was in a talkative, comradely mood, and hints were lost on me. He must have been very patient and forbearing. We made coffee, I remember, and I smoked cigarettes and chattered about the party and Severn and Karelsky and so on. Perhaps he listened, but I think (and rather hope) that he didn't. He told me that the heat had "got at him," but that after a cold bath he felt much better. All the time we talked the thunder rolled and rumbled over the roofs, and the numerous cracks in the window-blind sparkled with vivid lightning. In the green-yellow gas-light the bed-sitting-room looked dingier and more forlorn than ever. Heaped up in one corner were books and papers that he had begun to sort out in readiness for removal, and about half-past midnight, wanting an excuse to stay longer, I said: "It's not a bit of good either of us trying to sleep on a night like this. We might just as well get to work and finish packing your things. I hear you're going to-morrow night...." Then came the shock that made me suddenly sober. He answered quietly--almost casually: "No, no ... I'm _not_ going." "Not--not going--to-morrow?" And he answered: "I'm not going--at all." I think I was dazed at first. Then I was angry that he hadn't told me before, and then, for a fraction of a second, I was selfishly glad that our friendship had been reprieved. After that bewilderment came again, and finally I was calm but immensely puzzled. I asked him if he meant that the whole arrangement with Karelsky was cancelled, and he said: "Yes--that's right." "But--but _why_?" "Because I--I can't go." "_Why_ can't you?" "I--I just _can't_, that's all." "But there _must_ be a reason!" "There _is_ a reason." "What?" "Well ... to begin with ... it was never absolutely settled that I _should_ go." "But you told Severn to-night that you were going." "Yes ... I thought I _was_ going then." "And you've changed your mind since?" "Yes ... I suppose I have." "But--_why_?" "Well, I've a right to change my mind, haven't I?" "Of course, but ..."