Marsham
listened, but took no active part in it. It was plain, however, that
none of the group felt himself in any way checked by Marsham's presence
or silence.
Presently Marsham--the debate in the House having fallen to levels of
dulness "measureless to man"--remembered that his mother had expressed a
wish that he might come home to dinner. He left the House, lengthening
his walk for exercise, by way of Whitehall and Piccadilly. His
expression was still worried and preoccupied. Mechanically he stopped to
look into a picture-dealer's shop, still open, somewhere about the
middle of Piccadilly. A picture he saw there made him start. It was a
drawing of the chestnut woods of Vallombrosa, in the first flush and
glitter of spring, with a corner of one of the monastic buildings, now
used as a hotel.
_She_ was there. At an official crush the night before he had heard
Chide say to Lady Niton that Miss Mallory had written to him from
Vallombrosa, and was hoping to stay there till the end of June. So that
she was sitting, walking, reading, among those woods. In what
mood?--with what courage? In any case, she was alone; fighting her grief
alone; looking forward to the future alone.
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