XIX

           

           HeleftheratthedoorofMadamedeChantelle’ssitting-room,andplungedoutaloneintotherain.

           Thewindflungaboutthestrippedtree-topsoftheavenueanddashedthestingingstreamsintohisface.Hewalkedtothegateandthenturnedintothehigh-roadandstrodealongintheopen,buffetedbyslantinggusts.Theevenlyridgedfieldswereablurredwasteofmud,andtherussetcovertswhichheandOwenhadshotthroughthedaybeforeshivereddesolatelyagainstadrivingsky.

           Darrowwalkedonandon,indifferenttothedirectionhewastaking.Histhoughtsweretossinglikethetree-tops.Anna’sannouncementhadnotcometohimasacompletesurprise:thatmorning,ashestrolledbacktothehousewithOwenLeathandMissViner,hehadhadamomentaryintuitionofthetruth.Butithadbeennomorethananintuition,themerestfaintcloud-puffofsurmise;andnowitwasanattestedfact,darkeningoverthewholesky.

           Inrespectofhisownattitude,hesawatoncethatthediscoverymadenoappreciablechange.Ifhehadbeenboundtosilencebefore,hewasnolessboundtoitnow;theonlydifferencelayinthefactthatwhathehadjustlearnedhadrenderedhisbondagemoreintolerable.HithertohehadfeltforSophyViner’sdefenselessstateasympathyprofoundlytingedwithcompunction.Butnowhewashalf-consciousofanobscureindignationagainsther.Superiorashehadfanciedhimselftoready-madejudgments,hewasawareofcherishingthecommondoubtastothedisinterestednessofthewomanwhotriestoriseaboveherpast.

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