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to run very much upon this meeting.
    I usually keep clear of Soho, partly because it’s so bad for the nerves and partly because it’s so expensive. It’s expensive not so much because the nervous tension makes one drink continually as because of the people who come and take one’s money away. I am very bad at refusing people who ask me for money. I can never think of a reason why if I have more ready cash than they have I should not be bound to give them some at least of what I have. I give with resentment but without hesitation. By the time I had worked my way along Brewer Street and Old Compton Street and up Greek Street as far as the Pillars of Hercules most of the money in my pocket had been taken away by various acquaintances. I was feeling extremely nervous by this time, not only because of Soho but because of imagining whenever I entered a pub that I should find Anna inside. I had been to these pubs a hundred times in the last few years without this thought coming into my head ; but now suddenly the whole of London had become an empty frame. Every place lacked her and expected her. I began to drink spirits.
    When I found myself short of money I crossed the street to cash a cheque at one of my afternoon drinking clubs that lay close by; and it was there that at last I picked up the trail. I asked the barman if he knew where Anna was to be found these days. He replied yes, he thought that she was running some sort of little theatre in Hammersmith. He searched under the bar and produced a card which bore the words The Riverside Theatre, and an address on Hammersmith Mall. The barman said he didn’t know whether she was still there, but that that’s where she was some months ago. She had left him this card to give to some gentleman who had never turned up. I might as well have it now, the barman said. I took it, and went into the street with my heart pounding. It needed serious reflection on the state of my finances to prevent me from taking a taxi to Hammersmith. But I ran all the way to Leicester Square station.

Three
    THE address I had been given was on that part of the Mall that lies between the Doves and the Black Lion. On Chiswick Mall the houses face the river, but on that piece of Hammersmith Mall which is relevant to my tale they turn their backs to the river and pretend to be an ordinary street. Chiswick Mall is a lazy collection of houses and greenery that looks dreamily out on to the water, but Hammersmith Mall is a labyrinth of waterworks and laundries with pubs and Georgian houses in between, which sometimes face the river and sometimes back it. The number to which I had been directed turned out to be a house standing a little by itself, with its back to the river and its front on a quiet piece of street, and an opening beside it where some steps led down to the water.
    By now I was in no such hurry. I looked at the house with suspicious curiosity, and it seemed to be looking back at me. It was a brooding self-absorbed sort of house, fronted by a small ragged garden and a wall shoulder high. The house was square, with rows of tall windows, and had preserved a remnant of elegance. I approached the iron gate in the wall. It was then that I observed a poster which was fixed on the other side of the gate. It was a home-made poster whose colours were running a bit, so that it had a rather sad appearance. I deciphered it. It said:
    RIVERSIDE MIMING THEATRE
    Reopening on August 1st with a luxurious and fanciful production of Ivan Lazemnikov’s great farce MARISHKA. Members only. The audience is requested to laugh softly and not to applaud.
    I stared at this object for some time. I don’t know why, but it struck me as queer. Finally, with a slow crescendo in the region of the heart I pushed open the gate, which was a little rusty, and walked up to the house. The windows gleamed blackly, like eyes behind dark glasses. The door was newly painted. I did not look for a bell, but tried the