They were going thither by invitation, and, to judge from
the laughter which accompanied their talk, their visit was likely to
afford them entertainment. The merriment on Julian's side was not
very natural; he looked indeed too ill to enjoy mirth of any kind.
As they stood in the Square, waiting for an omnibus, he kept
glancing uneasily about him, especially in the direction whence they
had come. It had the appearance of a habit, but before they had
stood much more than a minute, he started and exclaimed in a low
voice to his companion--
"I told you so. She is just behind there. She has come round by the
back streets, just to see if I'd told her the truth."
Waymark glanced back and shrugged his shoulders.
"Pooh! Never mind," he said. "You're used to it."
"Used to it! Yes," Julian returned, his face flushing suddenly a
deep red, the effect of extraordinary excitement; "and it is driving
me mad."
Then, after a fit of coughing--
"She found my poem last night, and burnt it."
"Burnt it?"
"Yes; simply because she could not understand it. She said she
thought it was waste paper, but I saw, I saw."
The 'bus they waited for came up, and they went on their way.
Pages:
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519