showed that Philip was not capable of remaining true to the one
ideal of his life. She was sure that this explained her
feelings--she was disappointed that he had not kept up to his own
standard; that he was weak enough to turn aside from it for the
first pretty pair of eyes. But she was too honest and too just
to accept that diagnosis of her feelings as final--she knew there
had been many pairs of eyes in America and in London, and that
though Philip had seen them, he had not answered them when they
spoke. No, she confessed frankly, she was hurt with herself
for neglecting her old friend so selfishly and for so long a
time; his love gave him claims on her consideration, at least,
and she had forgotten that and him, and had run after strange
gods and allowed others to come in and take her place, and to
give him the sympathy and help which she should have been the
first to offer, and which would have counted more when coming
from her than from any one else. She determined to make amends
at once for her thoughtlessness and selfishness, and her brain
was pleasantly occupied with plans and acts of kindness. It was
a new entertainment, and she found she delighted in it. She
directed the cabman to go to Solomons's, and from there sent
Philip a bunch of flowers and a line saying that on the following
day she was coming to take tea with him. She had a guilty
feeling that he might consider her friendly advances more
seriously than she meant them, but it was her pleasure to be
reckless: her feelings were running riotously, and the sensation
was so new that she refused to be circumspect or to consider
consequences. Who could tell, she asked herself with a
quick, frightened gasp, but that, after all, it might be that she
was learning to care? From Solomons's she bade the man drive to
the shop in Cranbourne Street where she was accustomed to