Thus isolated, he was like a solitary cuckoo contemplating
the gyrations of a flock of rooks. Their motions seemed a little
meaningless to one so far removed from all the fetishes and shibboleths
of Westminster. He heard them discussing Miltoun's speech, the real
significance of which apparently had only just been grasped. The words
'doctrinaire,' 'extremist,' came to his ears, together with the saying
'a new force.' People were evidently puzzled, disturbed, not pleased--as
if some star not hitherto accounted for had suddenly appeared amongst
the proper constellations.
Searching this crowd for Barbara, Courtier had all the time an uneasy
sense of shame. What business had he to come amongst these people so
strange to him, just for the sake of seeing her! What business had he to
be hankering after this girl at all, knowing in his heart that he could
not stand the atmosphere she lived in for a week, and that she was
utterly unsuited for any atmosphere that he could give her; to say
nothing of the unlikelihood that he could flutter the pulses of one half
his age!
A voice, behind him said: "Mr. Courtier!"
He turned, and there was Barbara.
"I want to talk to you about something serious: Will you come into the
picture gallery?"
When at last they were close to a family group of Georgian Caradocs, and
could as it were shut out the throng sufficiently for private speech,
she began:
"Miltoun's so horribly unhappy; I don't know what to do for him: He's
making himself ill!"
And she suddenly looked up, in Courtier's face.
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