Grim and motionless,
as a figure of fate, Wingrave looked down from his window, with cold,
yet discerning eyes. He was still an alien, a denizen in another world
from that which flowed so smoothly and pleasantly below. It was
something to which he did not belong, which he doubted, indeed, if
ever again he could enter. He had no part in it, no share in that
vigorous life, whose throbbings he could dimly feel, though his own
heart was beating to a slower and a very different tune. They were his
fellows in name only. Between him and them stood the judgment
of--Rocke!
The evil chances of the world are many! It was whilst his thoughts
traveled in this fashion that the electric landaulette of Lady Ruth
Barrington glided round the corner from St. James' Street, and joined
in the throng of vehicles slowly making their way down Piccadilly. His
attention was attracted first by the white and spotless liveries of
the servants--the form of locomotion itself was almost new to him.
Then he saw the woman who leaned back amongst the cushions. She was
elegantly dressed; she wore no veil; she did not look a day more than
thirty. She was attractive, from the tips of her patent shoes, to the
white bow which floated on the top of her lace parasol; a perfectly
dressed, perfectly turned out woman. She had, too, the lazy confident
air of a woman sure of herself and her friends. She knew nothing of
the look which flashed down upon her from the window overhead.
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