eypayyouforit,"saidJacob."Thereyouare.No.Youcansticktoit.Goandgetdrunk."
Hehadpartedwithhalf-a-crown,tolerantly,compassionately,withconsiderablecontemptforhisspecies.
EvennowpoorFannyElmerwasdealing,asshewalkedalongtheStrand,inherincompetentwaywiththisverycareless,indifferent,sublimemannerhehadoftalkingtorailwayguardsorportersorMrs.Whitehorn,whensheconsultedhimaboutherlittleboywhowasbeatenbytheschoolmaster.
Sustainedentirelyuponpicturepostcardsforthepasttwomonths,Fanny'sideaofJacobwasmorestatuesque,noble,andeyelessthanever.ToreinforcehervisionshehadtakentovisitingtheBritishMuseum,where,keepinghereyesdowncastuntilshewasalongsideofthebatteredUlysses,sheopenedthemandgotafreshshockofJacob'spresence,enoughtolastherhalfaday.Butthiswaswearingthin.Andshewrotenow—poems,lettersthatwereneverposted,sawhisfaceinadvertisementsonhoardings,andwouldcrosstheroadtoletthebarrel-organturnhermusingstorhapsody.Butatbreakfast(shesharedroomswithateacher),whenthebutterwassmearedabouttheplate,andtheprongsoftheforkswereclottedwitholdeggyolk,sherevisedthesevisionsviolentlywas,intruth,verycrosswaslosinghercomplexion,asMargeryJacksontoldher,bringingthewholethingdown(asshelacedherstoutboots)toalevelofmother-wit,vulgarity,andsentiment,forshehadlovedtooandbeenafool.
"One'sgodmothersoughttohavetoldone,"saidFanny,lookinginatthewindowofBacon,themapseller,intheStrand—toldonethatitisnousemakingafussthisislife,theyshouldhavesaid,asFannysaiditnow,lookingatthelargeyellowglobemarkedwithsteamshiplines.
"Thisislife.Thisislife,"saidFanny.
"Averyhardface,"thoughtMissBarrett,ontheothersideoftheglass,buyingmapsoftheSyriandesertandwaitingimpatientlytobeserved."Girlslookoldsosoonnowadays."
Theequatorswambehindtears.
"Piccadilly?"Fannyaskedtheconductoroftheomnibus,andclimbedtothetop.Afterall,hewould,hemust,comebacktoher.