Mr. Carlyon had gone abroad, she had ascertained that, and La Sarthe
Chase was still closed.
The night before John Derringham left for London, he hobbled down to
dinner on crutches. He was not to try and use his foot for some weeks
still, but the cut on his head was mended now. It was a glorious July
evening, the roses were not over on the terrace, and every aspect of
nature was gorgeously beautiful and peaceful.
They did not delay long over their repast, and there was still twilight
when Mrs. and Miss Clinker left their invalid alone with his wine. A
letter was in his pocket, arrived by the evening post from Mrs.
Cricklander, which he had not yet opened. It would contain her
reflections upon his changed conditions of fortune, of which he had,
when he learned of its full magnitude, duly informed her.
He was alternately raging with misery now, or perfectly numb and, as he
sat there a shattered wreck of his former _insouciant_ self, gaunt and
haggard and pitifully thin, some of his friends would hardly have
recognized him.
He felt it was his duty to read the missive presently, but he told
himself the lights were too dim, and taking a cigar he hobbled out upon
the terrace.
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