“Permit me to offer you the English paper which has just arrived, Sir John,” he said, holding out a Daily Telegraph. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the stream towards the enemy.
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