Its plan required no seeking. He would play--and,
to a certain extent, would sincerely play--the part of penitent. He
would apologise for Friday's lapse; would explain it to have been the
outcome of sheer despair of ever winning her good graces.
As to where he would find her he had no doubts. Dozing one day over a
book, he had not driven David and Angela from the room until they had
forced upon him a wearisome account of the secluded seat they had
discovered in Regent's Park. His patience in listening was an example
of the profit of casting one's bread upon the waters; for, making
without hesitation for the seat, he discovered Mary.
III.
The children, as he approached, were standing before her. David had
scratched his finger, and the three were breathlessly examining the
wounded hand for traces of the disaster. Brightly Mary was explaining
that the place of the wound was over the home of very big drops of
"blug," which could not possibly squeeze out of so tiny a window; when
Angela, turning at footsteps, exclaimed: "Oh, dear, oh, dear, what
_shall_ we do? Here's Bob!"
Alarm drummed in Mary's heart: fluttered upon her cheeks. She had
felt, as she told her George, so certain that from Bob she had now not
even acknowledgment to fear, that this deliberate intrusion set her
mind bounding into disordered apprehensions--stumbling among them,
terrified, out of breath.
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