His whole attention was
for Henrietta's reappearance. She would come back because she had said
she would, but if she did not come alone there would be trouble. He
did not, however, expect to see Francis Sales: he gathered that Sales
had failed her, and he was sorry. He would have beaten him, somehow;
he would have conquered for the first time in his life, and now he
felt that his task was going to be too easy. He wished he could have
sweated and panted in the doing of it; and when Henrietta returned
alone, walking with an angry swiftness, he felt a genuine regret.
'Come along, Charles,' she said briskly. 'Let us have dinner.'
He could see the brightness of her eyes, looking past him; her lips
had a fixed smile and he wished she would cry again. 'She is crying
inside,' he told himself. He moved forward beside her vaguely. The
tenderness of his love for her was like a powerful, warm wave,
sweeping over him and making him helpless for the time. He could do
nothing against it, he had to be carried with it, but suddenly it
receded, leaving him high and dry and unromantically in contact with a
lamp-post. His hat had fallen off.
'What are you doing?' Henrietta asked irritably.
He rubbed his head. 'Bumped it. I was thinking about you.'
'What were you thinking?' she asked defiantly.
'Oh, well--' he said.
She laughed. 'Charles, you're hopeless.'
'No, I'm not.' He stooped for his hat and picked it up.
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