Glancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy's chemicals had come
off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw "Dear Mrs.
Vyse," followed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any
more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and
pencilled a note on his knee.
Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine
as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy
Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should
have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court
Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of
Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs. Maple arriving at the door and
depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that
writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch's letter. He
did not want to read that letter--his temptations never lay in
that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his
own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had
wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to
feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and
so he had asked their permission.
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