Except, of course, for Mrs.
Colwood--nice, devoted little thing!
He moved on, consumed with regrets and discomfort. During the two months
which had elapsed since Diana had left England, he had, in his own
opinion, gone through a good deal. He was pursued by the memory of that
wretched afternoon when he had debated with himself whether he should
not, after all, go and intercept her at Charing Cross, plead his
mother's age and frail health, implore her to give him time; not to
break off all relations; to revert, at least, to the old friendship. He
had actually risen from his seat in the House of Commons half an hour
before the starting of the train; had made his way to the Central Lobby,
torn by indecision; and had there been pounced upon by an important and
fussy constituent. Of course, he could have shaken the man off. But just
the extra resolution required to do it had seemed absolutely beyond his
power, and when next he looked at the clock it was too late. He went
back to the House, haunted by the imagination of a face. She would never
have mentioned her route unless she had meant "Come and say
good-bye!"--unless she had longed for a parting look and word.
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