When Philip Barrimore had accepted Colonel Lane’s apology and his hand, it had been an act of weariness and pity rather than an accepting of new relations. He was so jaded by anger and resentment, to say nothing of getting Phyllis off, that peace at any price seemed the only thing that mattered for the moment.
Uncle Robert’s jubilation had been a little premature.
Mrs. Barrimore was the first to make the discovery.
Philip, late though it was, announced his intention of going back to Gissing on foot. Philip hated walking, and he was dog-tired, so the mother knew that the strife was not ended.
She did not oppose him. When did she ever oppose him?
What Philip wanted to do, that he did. It had always been so.
“Davis will come for my bag,” he said as he left, which showed his mother that he would not be coming in on the morrow.
She went with him to the door alone, hoping for some comforting word. She laid a gentle, timid hand on his arm and looked up at him.
“Oh, don’t, mother!” he ejaculated. “Women never know when a man wants to be left alone!”
The young man caught the last tram to Ore, which helped him a little on his way. Then he strode along in the darkness, communing with himself.