Julia may have been an exception. She was the last of her party to get out of the carriage, Maynard on the off side, of course, still staying.
She appeared to linger, as with a hope of still being spoken to. It was upon her tongue to say the word “cruel”; but a proud thought restrained her; and she sprang quickly out of the carriage to spare herself the humiliation!
Equally near speaking was Maynard. He too was restrained by a thought—proud, but not cruel.
He looked along the platform, and watched them as they moved away. He saw them joined by two gentlemen—one who approached stealthily, as if not wishing to be seen.
He knew that the skulker was Swinton; and why he desired to avoid observation.
Maynard no more cared for the movements of this man—no more envied him either their confidence or company. His only reflection was:
“Strange that in every unpleasant passage of my life this same party should trump up—at Newport; in Paris; and now near London, in the midst of a grief greater than all!”
And he continued to reflect upon this coincidence, till the railway porter had pushed him and his portmanteau into the interior of a cab.
The official not understanding the cause of his abstraction, gave him no credit for it.