The Death of the Heart (48 page)

“Yes, and how’m I to know you’ll be coming back out of here?”

“If I don’t come out of here with a young lady, that’ll be because you’ll have brought me wrong.”

Matchett straightened her hat with both hands, gripped her bag more firmly, mounted the steps. Below the steps the grey road was all stucco and echoes—an occasional taxi, an occasional bus. Reflections of evening made unlit windows ghostly; lit lights showed drawingrooms pallid and bare. In the Karachi Hotel drawingroom, someone played the piano uncertainly.

All the same, in the stretched mauve dusk of the street there was an intimation of summer coming—summer, intensifying everything with its heat and glare. In gardens outside London roses would burn on, with all else gone in the dusk. Fatigue but a sort of joy would open in all hearts, for summer is the height and fullness of living. Already the dust smelled strong. In this premature night of clouds the sky was warm, the buildings seemed to expand. The fingers on the piano halted, struck true notes, found their way to a chord.

Through the glass door, Matchett saw lights, chairs, pillars—but there was no buttons, no one. She thought:

“Well, what a place!” Ignoring the bell, because this place was public, she pushed on the brass knob with an air of authority.