Chapter Three I
One afternoon he called at Harrington’s, in the High Street, to buy a book. It was a tiny low-roofed shop, the only one of its kind in Millstead, and with the sale of books it combined that of newspapers, stationery, pictures and fancy goods. It was always dark and shadowy, yet, unlike the Head’s study at the school, this gloom possessed a cheerful soothing quality that made the shop a pleasant haven of refuge when the pavements outside were dazzling and sun-scorched. It was on such an afternoon that Speed visited the shop for the first time. Usually he had no occasion to, for, though he dealt with Harrington’s, an errand-boy visited the school every morning to take orders and saved him the trouble of a walk into the village. This afternoon, however, he recollected a text-book that he wanted and had forgotten to order; besides, the heat of the mid-afternoon tempted him to seek shelter in one or other of the tranquil diamond-windowed shops whose sun-blinds sprawled unevenly along the street. It was the hottest day of the term, so far. A huge thermometer outside Harrington’s gave the shade temperature as a little over seventy-nine; all the roadway was bubbling with little gouts of soft tar. The innumerable dogs of Millstead, quarrelsome by nature, had called an armistice on account of the heat, and lay languidly across shady sections of the pavement. Speed, tanned by a week of successive hot days, with a Panama pushed down over his forehead to shield his eyes from dazzle, pushed open the small door and entered the cool cavern of the shop.
His eyes, unaccustomed to the gloom, were blind for a moment, but he heard movement of some kind behind the counter. “I want an atlas of the British Isles,” he said, feeling his way across the shop. “A school atlas, I mean. Cheap, rather, you know—about a shilling or one-and-sixpence.”
He heard Clare’s voice reply: “Yes, Mr. Speed, I know what you want. Hot weather, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
She went on, searching meanwhile along some shelves: “Nice of you not to bother about seeing me home the other night, Mr. Speed.”
He said, with a touch of embarrassment: “Well, you see, you told me. About—about Miss Ervine getting jealous, you know.”
“It was nice of you to take my information without doubting it.”
He said, rather to his own surprise: “As a matter of fact, I’m not sure that I don’t doubt it. Miss Ervine seems to me a perfectly delightful and natural girl, far too unsophisticated to be jealous of anybody. The more I see of her the more I like her.”
After a pause she answered quietly: “Well, I’m not surprised at that.”
“I suppose,” he went on, “with her it’s rather the opposite. I mean, the more she sees of me the less she likes me. Isn’t that it?”
“I shouldn’t think she likes you any less than she did at first.... Here’s the atlas. It’s one and three—I’d better put it on your account, eh?”
“Yes, yes, of course.... So you think—”
She interrupted him quickly with: “Mr. Speed, you’d better not ask me what I think. You’re far more subtle in understanding people than I am, and it won’t take you long to discover what Helen thinks of you if you set about with the intention.... Those sketch-blocks you ordered haven’t come in yet.... Well, good afternoon!”
Another customer had entered the shop, so that all he could do was to return a rather dazed “Good afternoon” and emerge into the blazing High Street. He walked back to the school in a state of not unpleasant puzzlement.