There had been enough and more than
enough of women in his life. The game of politics must somehow replace
them henceforth, if, indeed, anything were still worth while, except the
long day in the saddle and the dawn of new mornings in untrodden lands.
Mingled, all these, with hot dislike of Ashe, with the fascination of
Kitty, and a kind of venomous pleasure in the commotion produced by his
pursuit of her; inter penetrated, moreover, through and through with the
memory of his one true feeling, and of the woman who had died, alienated
from and despising him. He and Mary passed a profitless half-hour. He
would have liked to propitiate her, but he had no notion what he should
do with the propitiation, if it were reached. He wanted her money, but
he was beginning to feel with restlessness that he could not pay the
cost. The poet in him was still strong, crossed though it were by the
adventurer.
He took her back to the dancing-room. Mary walked beside him with a
dull, fierce sense of wrong. It was Kitty, of course, who had done
it--Kitty who had taken him away from her.
"That's finished," said Cliffe to himself, with a long breath of relief,
as he delivered her into the hands of her partner.
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