He
wandered aimlessly about watching the people come and go, looking
out into the flower-hung courtyard, curiously unconscious of
himself and of his errand, unable to concentrate his thoughts for
a moment, yet filled all the time with the dull and uneasy
sensation of one who moves in a dream. Every now and then he
heard scraps of conversation from the servants and passers-by,
referring to the last night's incident. He picked up a paper but
threw it down after only a casual glance at the paragraph. He
saw enough to convince him that for the present, at any rate,
Elizabeth seemed assured of a certain amount of sympathy. The
career of poor Wenham Gardner was set down in black and white,
with little extenuation, little mercy. His misdeeds in Paris,
his career in New York, spoke for themselves. He was quoted as a
type, a decadent of the most debauched instincts, to whom crime
was a relaxation and vice a habit. Tavernake would read no more.
He might have been all these things, and yet she had become his
wife!
At last came the message for which he was waiting. As usual, her
maid met him at the door of her suite and ushered him in.
Elizabeth was dressed for the part very simply, with a suggestion
even of mourning in her gray gown. She welcomed him with a
pathetic smile.
"Once more, my dear friend," she said, "I have to thank you."
Her fingers closed upon his and she smiled into his face.
Tavernake found himself curiously unresponsive.
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