He waited and the agony once again grew phantasmal in its terrors; then swiftly came word first that Roddy Seddon had been flung from his horse and was hovering between life and death, then that he would not die, but—"Paralysis of the spine—always have to lie on his back, I'm afraid" (this from Christopher)—then, finally this note:
"Seddon Court,
Near Lewes,
Sussex.
Dear Mr. Breton,
I have to come up to London next Tuesday for the day—I shall return here that same evening. I have a message for you. Could we have tea together that afternoon—or what do you say to a walk in Regent's Park? Perhaps we could talk there more easily—I'll meet you at the entrance to the Botanical Gardens about 3.30 unless I hear from you.
Yours sincerely,
E. Rand."
II
The effect upon him of Roddy's accident was indescribable. He was sorry, terribly sorry—dreadful for a man whose whole interests are in physical things to be laid on his back, like this, for ever. Surely it would be better for him to die, and then, at that, sober thought would forsake him—He did not wish Seddon to die, but around the possibility of it, always turning, wheeling, his mind fluttered.
He did not know what Lizzie would have to say to him, but, at his heart, he expected triumph—with so little encouragement, he would wait so faithfully—
It was a cold windy afternoon of early spring and up to the gates of the Botanical Gardens little eddies came sweeping: twigs and dust and pieces of paper tossing, under a grey sky, beneath branches that creaked and strained; Breton stood there impatiently; he was ten minutes before his time; this biting windy world took from him his confidence ... a dirty little brown dog walked round and round, wagging, now and again, a pessimistic tail.
There at last she was, coming, as orderly and neat as ever, up the road; her grey dress, her little shining shoes, her hair that no breeze could disturb, her expression as though she were ready for anything and would be surprised at nothing—these all, to-day, irritated him. Good heavens! was she so surely tied to her typewriter that she could understand nothing of the emotions that an ordinary human being might be feeling? Had she no imagination? Because she had never herself known sentiment about anyone alive was it beyond her to consider what others might encounter?
Breton would have preferred any other ambassador in this affair than the neat, efficient Miss Rand, forgetting that there had been a time when he had chosen her as his one and only confidante.
"How do you do, Mr. Breton?" she said, giving him her little gloved hand.