It was an intense
relief, when, saying that he wanted a certain magazine, Miltoun strode
off into the town.
To Harbinger, no less than to Miltoun and Barbara, last night had been
bitter and restless. The sight of that pale swaying figure, with the
parted lips, whirling round in Courtier's arms, had clung to his vision
ever since, the Ball. During his own last dance with her he had been
almost savagely silent; only by a great effort restraining his tongue
from mordant allusions to that 'prancing, red-haired fellow,' as he
secretly called the champion of lost causes. In fact, his sensations
there and since had been a revelation, or would have teen if he could
have stood apart to see them. True, he had gone about next day with his
usual cool, off-hand manner, because one naturally did not let people
see, but it was with such an inner aching and rage of want and jealousy
as to really merit pity. Men of his physically big, rather rushing,
type, are the last to possess their souls in patience. Walking home
after the Ball he had determined to follow her down to the sea, where
she had said, so maliciously; that she was going. After a second almost
sleepless night he had no longer any hesitation. He must see her! After
all, a man might go to his own 'place' with impunity; he did not care if
it were a pointed thing to do.
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