hold her hand and feel the shadow of her body bending towards his own! And his heart stopped beating; and he was suddenly cold with a splendid terror.
Then he did meet her again and had nothing to say. It seemed to him that she was frightened. He came home that day in a cold fog of miserable despair. A letter from his publishers informing him of a tenth edition was of ironical unimportance. He lay awake all night restlessly unhappy.
For the first time for many months the old shadows stole out into the room—the black bulk of Scaw House—the trees, the windows, his father. . .
And to him, tossing on his bed there came thoughts of a certain house in the town. He could get up and dress now—a cab would soon take him there . . . in the early morning he could slink back.
Clare did not want him! A fool to fancy that she had ever cared.
He, Peter Westcott, nobody! Why then should he not have his adventures, he still so young and vigorous? He would go to that house. . . .
And then, almost reluctantly, as he sat up in bed and watched the grey, shadowy walls, Stephen seemed to be visible to him—Stephen, walking the road, starting early in the fresh air when the light was breaking and the scent of the grass was cool and filled with dew.
He would write to Stephen in the morning—he lay down and went to sleep.
By this time, meanwhile, Alice and Bobby had noticed Alice, indeed, had a number of young men over whose emotions she kept guard and Peter had become, during these weeks, very valuable to her. . . .
She did not want him to marry anybody—especially she did not want him to marry Clare. At breakfast, past Peter's ears, as though he were not concerned at all, she talked to Bobby—
“Really, Dr. Rossiter spoils Clare bevond all bounds—”
“Um?”
“He's taking her with him up to Glasgow to that Congress thing. He knows perfectly well that she ought to stay with Mrs. Rossiter—and so does she.”
