I had not seen her since--had, indeed, almost forgotten her--but had
heard vaguely that she had left Hopshire, and come to London, and
married a wealthy man much older than herself.
Well, one day I was in Hyde Park, gazing at the people in the drive,
when a spick-and-span and very brand-new open carriage went by, and in
it sad Mrs. Deane (that was), all alone in her glory, and looking very
sulky indeed. She recognized me and bowed, and I bowed back again, with
just a moment's little flutter of the heart--an involuntary tribute to
auld lang syne--and went on my way, wondering that I could ever had
admired her so.
Presently, to my surprise, I was touched on the elbow. It was Mrs. Deane
again--I will call her Mrs. Deane still. She had got out and followed
me on foot. It was her wish that I should drive round the park with her
and talk of old times. I obeyed, and for the first and last time found
myself forming part of that proud and gay procession I had so often
watched with curious eyes.
She seemed anxious to know whether I had ever made it up with Colonel
Ibbetson, and pleased to hear that I had not, and that I probably never
should, and that my feeling against him was strong and bitter and
likely to last.
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