My life
here has seemed of all things the best to me. I am a dull, unambitious
sort of fellow, you know, since I settled down here, and I expected to
go on for the rest of my days pretty much in the same way. And yet when
Pelham showed me your picture it was different. I made him give a copy
to me. I told him--liar that I was--that I could not carry the memory of
your face in my mind, when it was already engraven in my heart. And I
went off to Paris, Phyllis, like the veriest Don Quixote, and I came
back very sad indeed when I could not find you. Then you came to Runton
Place, and the trouble began. I did not care who you were, Phyllis
Poynton, Sybil Fielding, or any one else. I let the others dispute. You
were--yourself, and I love you, dear. Now do you understand why I cannot
let you go away like this?"
He had both her hands in his now, but her face was turned away. Then
without any warning, there came a soft rapping at the door which led
into the library.
Duncombe reached it in a couple of strides. He opened it cautiously, and
found Spencer standing there.
"I thought it best to let you know," he said, "that a carriage has
stopped in the lane.
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