Vera followed the direction of their eyes. Sir John was walking slowly towards them; he was thin and careworn; he looked aged beyond all belief. He walked slowly, as though it were an effort to him, with his eyes upon the ground. He had not seen her yet; in another minute he would be within a couple of yards of her. It was next to impossible that he could avoid seeing her, the centre, as she was, of that noisy, chattering group.
A sort of despair seized her. How was she to meet him—this man whom she had so cruelly treated? She could not meet him; she felt that it was an impossibility. Like an imprisoned bird that seeks to escape, she looked about instinctively from side to side. What possible excuse could she frame? In what direction could she fly to avoid the glance of reproach that would smite her to the heart.
Suddenly Denis Wilde bent down over her.
"Miss Nevill, there goes a Dachshund, exactly like the one you wanted; come quickly, and we shall catch him up. He ran away down here."
She sprang up and turned after him; a path leading away from the crowded Row, towards the comparatively empty park at the back, opened out immediately behind her chair.
Young Wilde strode rapidly along it before her, and Vera followed him blindly and thankfully.
After a few minutes he stopped and turned round.
"Where is—the dog—wasn't it a dog, you said? Where is it?" She was white and trembling.
"There is no dog," he answered, not looking at her. "I—I saw you wanted to get away for a minute. You will forgive me, won't you?"
Vera looked at him with a sudden earnestness. The watchfulness which had seen her distress, the ready tact which had guessed at her desire to escape, and had so promptly suggested the manner of it, touched her suddenly. She put forth her hand gently and almost timidly.