CHAPTER XXVI.
THE RUSSIA-LEATHER CASE.
"Never again," so speaketh one forsaken,
In the blank desolate passion of despair:
Never again shall the bright dream I cherished
Delude my heart, for bitter truth is there:
The Angel Hope shall still my cruel pain;
Never again, my heart—never again!
A. Procter.
"Vera!"
Sir John Kynaston fell back a step or two and turned very white.
"How do you do?" said Vera, quietly, and put out her hand.
They stood in the open air. There was a carriage passing, some idle cabmen on the stand with nothing to do but to stare at them, a gaping nursery-maid and her charges at the gate. Whatever people may feel on suddenly running against each other after a deadly quarrel, or a heart-rending separation, or after a long interval of heart-burnings and misunderstandings, there are always the externals of life to be observed. It is difficult to rush into the tragedy of one's existence at a gulp; it is safer to shake hands and say, "How do you do?"
That is what Vera felt, and that was what these two people did. Sir John took her proffered hand, and responded to her stereotyped greeting. By the time he had done so he had recovered his presence of mind.
"What an odd thing to meet you at the door of this church," he said, rather nervously. "Do you know that my brother was married here this morning?"