His passion had become too
insistent for happy conjecturing; the visions of Ludowika now only
tormented him. Her eyes were like burning sapphires, her warm palms
caressed his face; he was increasingly gaunt and shadowed. Once he gave
a note for her to the Italian servant, loathing the hand that adroitly
covered the folded sheet, the other's oblique smile; but she sent back
word that she was suffering from a headache. He began to plan so that he
would intercept her in unexpected places. She, too, was passionate in
her admissions; but, somehow, some one always stumbled toward them, or
they were summoned from beyond. He began to feel that this was not mere
chance, but desired, deliberately courted, by Ludowika. Very well, he
would end it all, as it were, with a shout when Felix Winscombe came
back.
When Felix Winscombe came back!
He was, too, increasingly aware of his mother's scrutiny. Howat was
certain that Isabel Penny had surmised a part of his feeling for
Ludowika. He didn't greatly care; any one might know, he thought
contemptuously. It had destroyed his sympathetic feeling for his mother,
the only considerate bond that had existed with his family.
Unconsciously he placed her on one side of a line, the other held only
Ludowika and himself.
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