He allowed himself a few seconds to breathe, then took up Eva again, and crept out of the front door and into the hideous street. He reached the corner, and saw Praed Street with its taxi-cabs. "Got to take a cab," he said aloud, as if he were still addressing the man in the goods yard. "I dunno where I'm going.
"Hi!" called Albert to a passing taxi. It went on unheeding. "Hi!" he called. "Stop, won't you? Are you mad?" He actually galvanized his bending knees into a pitiable stagger, and overtook the taxi a few yards on, where it had stopped at a crossing. The driver looked at him as he panted alongside.
"Here you are," said Albert, staring at the delivery slip he had held all this time in his hand. "Pinckney, 14 Mulberry Grove, Hampstead."
"O.K." said the driver. Albert fell into the cab, and they were off.
Albert held Eva propped against him, and closed his eyes. A jerk, such as the dead will feel on the last day, recalled him to his sense. There was sunlight, altogether unlike the menacing glare in the loud streets: it was filtered through the leaves of lime trees. There was a heavenly quiet, a green iron gate, a gravel drive, a smiling house-front, peaceful, prosperous, and not unfriendly.
Albert stood in a wide porch, with his arm round Eva. A soft-faced man, in blue serge trousers and waistcoat stood in the doorway. "Never 'eard of a tradesman's entrance?" said he mildly.
"This 'ere's special," said Albert, holding out his slip.
"Well, you've come wrong," said the man. "Mr. Pinckney's down at the Hall. Two Rivers Hall, Baddingly, Suffolk. They ought to have known at the shop. You take it back quick."
"Wanted very special," murmured Albert in despair, proffering his slip.
The man weighed up the situation for a moment. "Hand it over," said he. "The chauffeur's going down. He'll take it."
"He'll take me, too," said Albert. "This is special."
"All right," said the man. "You'll have to get back by yourself though."
"Don't you worry about me," said Albert.
There followed another dream, with Albert sitting in the back of a large touring car, Eva beside him, and the wrapping dislodged a little so that she could get the fresh air and see the fields go by. Not a word was said. Albert ceased trying to fit things together in his brain. He wished the drive would go on for ever, but, since it had to end, he was glad that it ended at a quiet house, standing on a gentle Suffolk knoll, surrounded by red walls and green gardens, full of the shade of senior trees.
"The master's in the studio," said an old woman to the chauffeur.
"You come along with me," said the chauffeur to Albert.
Albert followed with his precious burden into a cobbled stable yard. The chauffeur knocked at a door. "Young man from Rudd & Agnew's. Special delivery," said he.
"What's that?" said a voice. "Send him in."
Albert found himself in a giant room. It was a loft and stable knocked into one, with a vast cool window all down one side. A large canvas stood on an easel; there were hundreds of brushes, several palettes, boxes of colours. On a cane sofa was a young man reclining in great comfort, reading a thriller.
This young man looked up at Albert. He was a true monkeyface, hideously ugly, with a quick brown eye, hair fallen over his forehead; cotton jersey, beach trousers, straw shoes, and a pipe. "Well, what is it?" said he.
"I've brought " said Albert. "I've brought I've brought this." He pulled aside a little more of the wrapping.
"I didn't order anything of this sort," said the young man. "You've brought her to the wrong place."
"Here it is," said Albert, offering his slip. "Written down."
"I don't use that sort of model," said the young man. "Might be an idea, though. However, you ask them to give you some beer in the kitchen, and then take her back."
"No," said Albert. He began to shake and tremble. He stared at Mr. Pinckney with a rabbit desperation. Mr. Pinckney stared back at him. "What is all this?" said he.
"Mister," said Albert, "have you ever been in love?"
"We won't discuss that," said the ugly young man.
"If you don't know, it's no good me talking, "said Albert. "All right, I'll get out. Come on, Eva. I can't help it. We got to get out."
"Wait a little," said Mr. Pinckney. "Take it easy. Tell me all about it. I shall understand."
"It's like this," said Albert, and told, very strangely, his strange story.
"You are quite mad," said Pinckney at the end of it.
"So they say," said Albert. "I'm a human being, ain't I? I could be happy."
"I like your philosophy," said Pinckney. "Mad but happy."
"Have I ever been happy?" said Albert.
"Go on," said Pinckney.
"And what about her?" said Albert. "But you are laughing. You're ribbing me." His voice rose dangerously.
"What would you do with her?" said Pinckney.
"I'd look after her," said Albert. "But not to be ribbed. No. I'll get out."
"Listen you," said Pinckney. "If you want to look after her, don't leave her propped against the table there. Set her in the armchair comfortably."
"Yes, sir, I will," said Albert. "I didn't like to ask."
"Take off those stuffy wrappings," said Mr. Pinckney harshly. Albert smiled at Mr. Pinckney.
"So, you're in love with her," said Mr. Pinckney, "and you want to be happy. What's your name, by the way?"
"Albert Baker. Hers is Eva."
"Well, Baker," said Pinckney, in a tone of command. "I'm not making you any promises; you're just here in peace and quiet for the present. How long, depends on a lot of things. Most of all, on how you behave. You're mad. Don't forget it. It doesn't matter a bit, but you've got to be sensible about it. Listen to this. If ever you feel an overpowering impulse if ever you feel you simply must do something whatever it is, you're to tell me first. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir," cried Albert. "If you please, I must I must go to the lavatory. I'm so happy."
"Excellent!" said Pinckney. "Then go and sit under the tree over there. Eva will be perfectly all right. She's resting."
"She's all right," said Albert. "She trusts you."
When he had gone, Pinckney went to the telephone, and he called his lawyer.
"I'm going to keep him here," said he, in conclusion. "Well, I'm going to, that's all Yes, but you tell them their damned model's going to be paid for. That's all they care about Yes. I'm responsible for him That's it, our respected client As long as you fix it Oh, hideous, absolutely hideous Might do to paint for a lark Well, you'll let me know? Good man! That's fine."
Pinckney hung up. "He'll fix it," said he to himself. "But I'll keep that bit of news, in case he needs calling to order. If he seems depressed, I'll tell him."
Albert, however, did not seem depressed. The journey through the London streets had left him with some comfortable blanks in his mind. He wore a slightly dazed look; his mouth hung open, and his eyes filled with tears now and then, when a thought came to a happy end, transforming itself into a feeling, like a flower opening inside his mind. To the outward view there was nothing very odd about him. "He's a bit queer, isn't he?" said Mabel the housemaid.
"Nervous breakdown," said the housekeeper. "That's what Mr. Pinckney says. My sister's boy had one. They put him in a home."
"He's no trouble," said Mabel. "Does his own room, anyway. Funny, he locks that door as if he had the Crown Jewels to look after."
"He's very willing and obliging," said the housekeeper. "And he's got to be let alone."
Albert had an old chauffeur's room, away over the end of the stables. He shone the shoes, he fetched and carried for the housekeeper, who was told never to send him down to the village. Most of the time he helped the gardeners in the green gardens that were almost all lawn and trees. From the dusty window Eva watched him working for her in the yellow shade of the limes, in the black shade of the mulberries, and in the green shade of the mighty beech.