All sorts of torturing visions came to her. Those empty
chambers! She had seen one little minute of their intimacy. A hundred
kisses might have passed between them--a thousand words of love! And he
would lie to her. Already he had acted a lie! She had not deserved
that. And this sense of the injustice done her was the first relief she
felt--this definite emotion of a mind clouded by sheer misery. She had
not deserved that he should conceal things from her. She had not had one
thought or look for any man but him since that night down by the
sea, when he came to her across the garden in the moonlight--not one
thought--and never would! Poor relief enough! She was in Hyde Park now,
wandering along a pathway which cut diagonally across the grass. And
with more resolution, more purpose, she began searching her memory for
signs, proofs of WHEN he had changed to her. She could not find them.
He had not changed in his ways to her; not at all. Could one act love,
then? Act passion, or--horrible thought!--when he kissed her nowadays,
was he thinking of that girl?
She heard the rustling of leaves behind. A youth was following her along
the path, some ravening youth, whose ungoverned breathing had a kind of
pathos in it. Heaven! What irony! She was too miserable to care, hardly
even knew when, in the main path again, she was free from his pursuit.
Love! Why had it such possession of her, that a little thing--yes, a
little thing--only the sight of him with another, should make her suffer
so? She came out on the other side of the park.
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