He saw Ferrier
come in, stoop over the newspaper on the floor, raise it, and walk
toward the fire with it. The figure stood with its back to him; then
suddenly it turned, and Marsham saw the well-known face, intent, kindly,
a little frowning, as though in thought, but showing no consciousness of
his, Oliver's, presence or plight. He himself wished to speak, but was
only aware of useless effort and some intangible hinderance. Then
Ferrier moved on toward a writing-table with drawers that stood beyond
the fireplace. He stooped, and touched a handle. "No!" cried Oliver,
violently--"no!" He woke with shock and distress, his pulse racing. But
the feverish state began again, and dreams with it--of the House of
Commons, the election, the faces in the Hartingfield crowd. Diana was
among the crowd--looking on--vaguely beautiful and remote. Yet as he
perceived her a rush of cool air struck on his temples, he seemed to be
walking down a garden, there was a scent of limes and roses.
"Oliver!" said his mother's voice beside him--"dear Oliver!"
He roused himself to find Lady Lucy bending over him. The pale dismay in
her face excited and irritated him.
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