Free Merry Go Round by W. Somerset Maugham

know what you are now, and you horrify me. I hope I shall never see you again. I would sooner my mother were a wretched woman on the streets than you!'
    Lady Vizard rang the bell.
    'Miller,' she said when the butler appeared, as though she had forgotten Basil's presence, 'I shall want the carriage at four.'
    'Very well, my lady.'
    'You know I'm dining out, don't you?'
    'Yes, my lady.'
    Then she pretended to remember Basil, who watched her silently, pale and scarcely able to contain himself.
    'You can show Mr Kent out, Miller. And if he happens to call again you can say that I'm not at home.'
    With scornful insolence she saw him go, and once again remained
    mistress of the situation.
     
    Then came three years at the Cape, for Basil, unwilling to return to England, stayed after the expiration of the year for which he enlisted. At first his shame seemed unendurable, and he brooded over it night and day; but when the distance increased between him and Europe, when at length he set foot on African soil, the load of dishonour grew lighter to bear. His squadron was quickly sent up-country, and the hard work relieved his aching mind; the drudgery of a trooper's lot, the long marches, the excitement and the novelty, exhausted him so that he slept with a soundness he had never known before. Then came the sheer toil of war and its dull monotony; he suffered from hunger and thirst, from heat and cold. But these things drew him closer to the companions from whom at first he had sought to hide himself; he was touched by their rough good-humour, their mutual help, and the sympathy with which they used him in sickness; his bitterness towards mankind in general diminished when he saw human good-fellowship face to face with actual hardship; and when at last he found himself in battle, though he had looked forward to it with horrible anxiety, fearing that he might be afraid, Basil felt a great exhilaration which made life most excellent to live. For then vice and squalor and ugliness vanished away, and men stood before one another in primeval strength, the blood burning in their veins, and Death walked between contending hosts; and where Death is there can be nothing petty, sordid, nor mean.
    But finally the idea came to Basil that it was not brave to remain there in concealment. For such talents as he had the Cape offered no scope, and he made up his mind to return to London, holding up his head proudly, and there show what stuff he was made of. He felt more self-reliant because he knew he could withstand cheerfully fatigue and want; and the medal on his breast proved that he lacked not courage.
    Back at length in London, he entered his name at Lincoln's Inn, and while arranging for publication a little series of sketches he had written during the war, worked hard at law. Though the storm through which he passed had left him somewhat taciturn, with a leaning towards introspection, at bottom Basil was no less open-hearted and sanguine than before, and he entered upon this new phase with glowing hopes. But sometimes his chambers in the Temple seemed very lonely. He was a man who yearned for domestic ties; a woman's hands busied about him, the rustle of a dress or the sound of a loving voice were necessities of his nature. And now it seemed the last bitterness of his life would be removed, for Mrs Murray offered just that affection which he needed, and, still somewhat distrustful of himself, he looked for support to her strength.
    Then, in the midst of his thought, Basil frowned, for on a sudden there had arisen in his mind a form which in his newborn joy he had momentarily forgotten. Leaving the bridge he wandered to the greater darkness of the Mall, his hands behind him; and for a long time walked up and down beneath the trees, perplexed and downcast. It was very late, and there was scarcely a soul about; on the seats homeless wretches lay asleep, huddled in grotesque attitudes, and a policeman stealthily crept along behind them.
    Some months