Holwood said nothing to this. His head had fallen. He took off his nodding hat and set it on the stone. He folded his arms and looked pensively, broodingly at the pebbles.
SUDDENLY HOLWOOD STOOPED AND PRESSED HIS LIPS TO HER BROW.
What would he not now have given had the past been different? Had it been possible now to go back and reconsider his conduct? How happy he could have been in a humble dwelling by the seaside with his simple, beautiful, loving wife, and this glorious child to take to his arms as his own flesh and blood, and for whom to scheme and build castles in the air.
But over eighteen years ago he had taken a wrong direction, and to retrace his steps was now impossible.
'Please, sir, you have dropped your key.'
'Bless my soul,' exclaimed he, rousing himself, 'it will become choked with sand.'
'There is no sand here, only small gravel.'
He proceeded to stoop. But this was a slow and painful process, attended with strainings and creakings. Winefred forestalled him. She had picked up the key and presented it to him, lying across her rosy palm, before his person had described a right angle.