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XVII

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    sbrainthrobbedsoviolentlythathethoughtsomethinghorriblewouldhappentohim.Heheardtheregular,quickbeating,liketheimplacablehammeringofgnomesuponsomehidden,distantanvil. "She'sinLondon,"herepeated. Whenhadtheletterbeenposted?Atleast,hemighthavelookedatthemarkontheenvelope.Wasitayearago?Wasitlately?Theletterdidnotlookasthoughithadbeenlyingabouttheclubformanymonths.HaditnotstilltheodourofthosedreadfulParmaviolets?ShemusthaveseeninthepaperhisreturnfromAfrica,woundedandill.Andwhatdidshesay?Didshemerelywriteafewcoldwordsofcongratulationor—more? Itwasterriblethatafterthreeyearsthemeresightofherhandwritingshouldhavepowertothrowhimintothisstateofeager,passionateanguish.Hewasseizedwiththeoldpanic,theterrifiedperceptionofhissurrender,ofhisutterweakness,whichmadeflighttheonlypossibleresistance.Thatwaswhyhehaddestroyedtheletterunread.WhenMrs.Wallacewasmanythousandmilesawaytherehadbeennodangerinconfessingthathelovedherbutnowitwasdifferent.Whatdidshesayintheletter?Hadsheinsomefeminine,mysteriousfashiondiscoveredhissecret?Didsheaskhimtogoandseeher?Jamesrememberedoneoftheirconversations. "Oh,IlovegoingtoLondon!"shehadcried,openingherarmswiththecharming,exoticgesticulationwhichdistinguishedherfromallotherwomen."Ienjoymyselfawfully." "Whatdoyoudo?" "Everything.AndIwritetopoorDickthreetimesaweek,andtellhimallIhaven'tdone." "Ican'tbearthegrass-widow,"saidJames. "Poorboy,youcan'tbearanythingthat'samusing!Ineverknewanyonewithsuchanidealofwomanasyouhave—agloomymixtureoffrumpishnessandangularity." Jamesdidnotanswer. "Don'tyouwishwewereinLondonnow?"shewenton."YouandItogether?IreallybelieveIshouldhavetotakeyouabout.You'reasinnocentasababe." "D'youthinkso?"saidJames,ratherhurt. "Now,ifwewereintown,onourown,whatwouldyoudo?" "Oh,Idon'tknow.Isupposemakealittlepartyanddinesomewhere,andgototheSavoytoseethe'Mikado.'" Mrs.Wallacelaughed. "Iknow.Apartyoffour—yourselfandme,andtwomaidenaunt
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