"I am Anita Wilmersley!" she cried aloud.
But the tension had been too great; with a little gasp she sank fainting to the floor.
CHAPTER XIX
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
What he did during the next few hours, Cyril never quite knew. He retained a vague impression of wandering through endless streets and of being now and then arrested in his heedless course by the angry imprecations of some wayfarer he had inadvertently jostled or of some Jehu whose progress he was blocking.
How could he have behaved like such a fool, he kept asking himself. He had not said a thing to Anita that he had meant to say—not one. Worse still, he had told her that he loved her! He had even held her in his arms! Cyril tried not to exult at the thought. He told himself again and again that he had acted like a cad; nevertheless the memory of that moment filled him with triumphant rapture. Had he lost all sense of shame, he wondered. He tried to consider Anita's situation, his own situation; but he could not. Anita herself absorbed him. He could think neither of the past nor of the future; he could think of nothing connectedly.
The daylight waned and still he tramped steadily onward. Finally, however, his body began to assert itself. His footsteps grew gradually slower, till at last he realised that he was miles from home and that he was completely exhausted. Hailing a passing conveyance, he drove to his lodgings.
He was still so engrossed in his dreams that he felt no surprise at finding Peter sitting in the front hall, nor did he notice the dejected droop of the latter's shoulders.
On catching sight of his master, Peter sprang forward.