Ah, what had come to Judith, standing in a corner of the hall watching the little scene?
Ah, what did it mean, what was it, this beating and throbbing of all her pulses, this strange, choked feeling in her throat, this mist that swam before her eyesight?
The dining-room door, near which she stood, was ajar; moved by the blind impulse of her terror, she pushed it open; and trembling, ashamed, not daring to analyse her own emotions, she sought the shelter of the darkness.
. . . .
While Judith was being driven to Kensington Palace Gardens, lying back pale and tired in a corner of the carriage, Reuben was sauntering towards Piccadilly with a cigar in his mouth.
For the moment, his mind dwelt on the fact that he had not been able to say good-night to Judith.
“Where did she make off to?” he asked himself persistently.
He was strangely irritated and baffled by the little accident.
As he went slowly down Regent Street, which was full of light and of people returning from the theatres, the thought of Judith took more and more possession of him, till his pulses beat and his senses swam.
Ah, why not, why not?