Unable to sit still, he rose, put on his hat, went
out, and drove to the house in Regent's Park.
Lydia was in her boudoir, occupied with a book, when he entered. He
was not an acute observer; he could see no change in her. She was as
calm as ever; her eyes were not even fully open, and the touch of
her hand subdued him as it had always done. Though he had never
entertained any hope of possessing her since the day when she had
refused him in Bedford Square, a sense of intolerable loss came upon
him as he saw her for the first time pledged to another--and such
another!
"Lydia," he said, trying to speak vehemently, but failing to shake
off the conventional address of which he had made a second nature,
"I have heard something that has filled me with inexpressible
dismay. Is it true?"
"The news has travelled fast," she said. "Yes; it is true." She
spoke composedly, and so kindly that he choked in trying to reply.
"Then, Lydia, you are the chief actor in a greater tragedy than I
have ever witnessed on the stage."
"It is strange, is it not?" she said, smiling at his effort to be
impressive.
"Strange! It is calamitous. I trust I may be allowed to say so. And
you sit there reading as calmly as though nothing had happened.
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