Mrs. Wilson was not at home, so that Philip had only to leave the note.
He turned back, crossing the Public Garden in the soft evening.
Overhead was the mysterious darkness, quivering with stars. The air
was full of suggestions of advancing spring. He felt in his veins an
unreasonable restlessness, a stirring as of sap in the tree, a longing
for that which he could not define. He heard around him gay voices and
laughter, for the night was warm, and people were sitting about on the
benches or strolling along the walks. He began to examine the groups he
passed, looking with a curious eye at the couples sitting side by side
in friendly or in loving companionship. He felt so utterly alone, and
all these about him were mated. The tones of women sounded soft and
sweet in his ear. Stray verses of Canticles began to float through his
mind as wisps of vapor drift across the sky before the fog comes in
from the sea. He repeated the collect for the day, and through it all
he was thinking that it was possible to walk past the house of Mrs.
Fenton. The difference in the time of his reaching the Clergy House
would not be so great as to attract notice; he might see her shadow on
the curtain; it was not probable, of course, but it was possible; in
any case, he should feel near to her.
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