of Whitehall and Piccadilly. His
expression was still worried and preoccupied. Mechanically he stopped to
look into a picture-dealer's shop, still open, somewhere about the
middle of Piccadilly. A picture he saw there made him start. It was a
drawing of the chestnut woods of Vallombrosa, in the first flush and
glitter of spring, with a corner of one of the monastic buildings, now
used as a hotel.

_She_ was there. At an official crush the night before he had heard
Chide say to Lady Niton that Miss Mallory had written to him from
Vallombrosa, and was hoping to stay there till the end of June. So that
she was sitting, walking, reading, among those woods. In what
mood?--with what courage? In any case, she was alone; fighting her grief
alone; looking forward to the future alone. Except, of course, for Mrs.
Colwood--nice, devoted little thing!

He moved on, consumed with regrets and discomfort. During the two months
which had elapsed since Diana had left England, he had, in his own
opinion, gone through a good deal. He was pursued by the memory of that
wretched afternoon when he had debated with himself whether he should
not, after all, go and intercept her at Charing Cross, plead his
mother's age and frail health, implore her to give him time; not to
break off all relations; to revert, at least, to the old friendship. He
had actually risen from his seat in the House of Commons half an hour
before the starting of the train; had made his way to the Central Lobby,
torn by indecision; and had there been pounced upon by an important and
fussy constituent. Of course, he could have shaken the man off. But just
the extra resolution required to do it had seemed absolutely beyond his
power, and when next he looked at the clock it was too late. He went
back to the House, haunted by the imagination of a face. She would never
have mentioned her route unless she had meant "Come and say
good-bye!"--unless she had longed for a parting look and word. And
he--coward that he was--had shirked it--had denied her last
mute petition.

Well!--after all--might it not simply have made matters worse?--for her
no less than for him? The whole thing was his mother's responsibility.
He might, no doubt, have pushed it all through, regardless of
consequences; he might have accepted the Juliet Sparling heritage,
thrown over his career, braved his mother, and carried off Diana by
storm--if, that is, she would ever have allowed him to make the
sacrifice