shadows, strange and woe-begone. To Mildred it seemed all like death.
She would never again walk with him in the pretty spring mornings when
light mist and faint sunlight play together, and the trees shake out
their foliage in the warm air. How sad it all was. But she did feel
sorry for him, she really was sorry, though she wasn't overcome with
grief. But she had done nothing wrong. In justice to herself she could
not admit that she had. She always knew just where to draw the line,
and if other girls did not, so much the worse for them. He had wanted
to marry her, but that was no reason why she should marry him. She may
have led him to expect that she would sooner or later, but in breaking
with him she had done the wisest thing. She would not have made him
happy; she was not sure that she could make any man happy...

Awaking from her thoughts she reproached herself for her selfishness,
she was always thinking of herself... and that poor fellow was dying
for love of her! She knew what death was; she too had been ill. She
was quite well now, but she had been ill enough to see to the edge of
that narrow little slit in the ground, that terrible black little slit
whence Ralph was going, going out of her sight for ever, out of sight
of the park, this park which would be as beautiful as ever in another
couple of months, and where he had walked with her. How terrible it
was, how awful--and how cold, she could not stand on the bridge any
longer. She shivered and said, 'I'm catching a cold.'

For the sake of her figure she never wore quite enough clothes, and
she regretted her imprudence in standing so long on the misty bridge.
She must take care of herself, for her to feel ill would serve no
purpose--she would not be able to see Ralph, and she wanted to see him
above all things. As she crossed the open space in front of Buckingham
Palace the desire to see him laid hold of her. She must know if he