Owen reproached himself bitterly for
his momentary loss of presence of mind. If he had only kept his head,
he could have taken a flying shot at the man with the marmalade-pot. It
had been within easy reach. Instead of which, he had merely stood and
gaped. Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, 'It
might have been.'
His manly regret was interrupted by the entrance of Mr Dorman with the
information that the dog-cart was at the door.
* * * * *
Audrey was out of town when Owen arrived in London, but she returned a
week later. The sound of her voice through the telephone did much to
cure the restlessness from which he had been suffering since the
conclusion of his holiday. But the thought that she was so near yet so
inaccessible produced in him a meditative melancholy which enveloped
him like a cloud that would not lift. His manner became distrait. He
lost weight.
If customers were not vaguely pained by his sad, pale face, it was only
because the fierce rush of modern commercial life leaves your business
man little leisure for observing pallor in bank-clerks. What did pain
them was the gentle dreaminess with which he performed his duties. He
was in the Inward Bills Department, one of the features of which was
the sudden inrush, towards the end of each afternoon, of hatless,
energetic young men with leather bags strapped to their left arms,
clamouring for mysterious crackling documents, much fastened with pins.
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