He had left his hat. The servant, still standing there, handed him that
wide-brimmed object and closed the door in his face. Once more he moved
away, going towards Piccadilly. If it had not been for the expression
on Gyp's face, what might he not have done? And, mixed with sickening
jealousy, he felt a sort of relief, as if he had been saved from
something horrible. So she had never loved him! Never at all?
Impossible! Impossible that a woman on whom he had lavished such passion
should never have felt passion for him--never any! Innumerable images of
her passed before him--surrendering, always surrendering. It could not
all have been pretence! He was not a common man--she herself had said
so; he had charm--or, other women thought so! She had lied; she must
have lied, to excuse herself!
He went into a cafe and asked for a fine champagne. They brought him
a carafe, with the measures marked. He sat there a long time. When he
rose, he had drunk nine, and he felt better, with a kind of ferocity
that was pleasant in his veins and a kind of nobility that was pleasant
in his soul. Let her love, and be happy with her lover! But let him get
his fingers on that fellow's throat! Let her be happy, if she could keep
her lover from him! And suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, for there
on a sandwich-board just in front of him were the words: "Daphne Wing.
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