Marsham listened in silence. What she said was new to him, and often
bitter. He had known nothing of this intimate relation which had sprung
up so rapidly between her and Ferrier. While he acknowledged its beauty
and delicacy, the very thought of it, even at this moment, filled him
with an irritable jealousy. The new bond had arisen out of the wreck of
those he had himself broken; Ferrier had turned to her, and she to
Ferrier, just as he, by his own acts, had lost them both; it might be
right and natural; he winced under it--in a sense, resented it--none
the less.
And all the time he never ceased to be conscious of the newspaper in his
breast-pocket, and of that faint pencilled line that seemed to burn
against his heart.
Would she shrink from him, finally and irrevocably, if she knew it? Once
or twice he looked at her curiously, wondering at the power that women
have of filling and softening a situation. Her broken talk of Ferrier
was the only possible talk that could have arisen between them at that
moment without awkwardness, without risk. To that last ground of
friendship she could still admit him, and a wounded self-love suggested
that she chose it for his sake as well as Ferrier's.
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