I remember
that, as he read the description of Lynwood and his wife, I kept
looking from him to the Christ in the picture till I could almost
have fancied that each face bore the same expression. Had this
strange monotonous life with that old brute of a Major brought him
some new perception of those words, "Neither do I condemn thee"?
But when he stopped reading, I, true to my character, forgot his
affairs in my own, as we sat talking far into the night--talking of
that luckless month at Mondisfield, of all the problems it had
opened up, and of my wretchedness.
"You were in town all September?" he asked; "you gave up
Blachington?"
"Yes," I replied. "What did I care for country houses in such a
mood as that."
He acquiesced, and I went on talking of my grievances, and it was
not till I was in the train on my way back to London that I
remembered how a look of disappointment had passed over his face
just at the moment. Evidently he had counted on learning something
about Freda from me, and I--well, I had clean forgotten both her
existence and his passionate love.
Something, probably self-interest, the desire for my friend's
company, and so forth, took me down to Bath pretty frequently in
those days; luckily the Major had a sort of liking for me, and was
always polite enough; and dear old Derrick--well, I believe my
visits really helped to brighten him up.
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