If nothing else prevented me, one sentence would. Lady Denham says, near the end—
"Is it not singular? We have just come across that young officer again,—Captain A. Lenox, whom we saw at Rouen. You will remember my son mentioning him in connection with a photograph. I think you said you had known some member of the same family. He was at the same hotel with us in Bath, three days ago. I was glad to see him quite well."
That is all. I do not understand her object in making the remark. She may have written the words quite innocently,—or she may have some dim suspicion of the truth.
Either way, what difference can it make? For I can do nothing. Womanly reserve and self-respect forbid the slightest step on my part. If he knew—But if he did, he might not care! How can I tell? He is "quite well," that may mean "quite recovered" in more ways than one. I think a woman clings longer to a hopeless memory than a man does. And he told me plainly that he would never place himself in my path again.
What can have taken him to Bath I cannot—
* * * * * * *
Something so terribly unpleasant has happened. I cannot write more now. My hand is shaking, and I feel altogether upset. I will never journalise in the drawing-room again.
[CHAPTER XXI.]
THROUGH A STORM.
THE SAME.