toward him. It made no difference in his feeling for her, his
determination that nothing should take her from him. His power of
detachment vanished; he became utterly the instrument of his passion.

He didn't press upon her small expressions of his emotion; somehow,
without struggle, she had made them seem foolish; beyond that they were
inadequate. He was conscious of the approach of a great climax; his
feeling was above the satisfaction of trivial caresses. Soon, he told
himself, soon he would absolutely possess her, for as long as they
lived. Ultimately she must be happy with him. He thought the same things
in a ceaseless round; he walked almost without sight, discharging
mechanically the routine of daily existence; answering inevitable
queries in a perfunctory, dull voice. Myrtle Forge made a distant
background of immaterial colours and sounds for the slightly mocking
figure of Ludowika.

In mid-afternoon David arrived with a face stung scarlet by beating
wind, and a clatter of hoofs. He immediately found Gilbert Penny, and
the two men sat together with grave faces, lowered voices. Howat, who
had left the counting house at the sound of the hurried approach, caught
a few words as he drew near the others:

"... a bad attack, crumpled him up. Coming out from the city now." They
were talking about Felix Winscombe, who, it appeared, had been assaulted
by a knife-like pain; and was returning to Myrtle Forge. "Watlow saw no
reason why it should be dangerous," David continued; "he thinks perhaps
it came from unusual exertions, entertaining. A little rest, he says. He
thinks the Winscombes will be able to sail on the _Lindamira_ as they
planned."