He had woken early that
morning, and, glancing at his watch on the dressing-table, he had suddenly
become aware of something bright and yellow beside it, and had paused,
transfixed, like Robinson Crusoe staring at the footprint in the sand.
If he had not been in England, he would have said it was a patch of
sunshine. Hardly daring to hope, he pulled up the shades and looked out
on the garden.
It was a superb morning. It was as if some giant had uncorked a great
bottle full of the distilled scent of grass, trees, flowers, and hay.
Mr. Bennett sniffed luxuriantly. Gone was the gloom of the past days,
swept away in a great exhilaration.
Breakfast had deepened his content. Henry Mortimer, softened by the
same balmy influence, had been perfectly charming. All their little
differences had melted away in the genial warmth. And then suddenly
Mr. Bennett remembered that he had sent Billie up to London to enlist
the aid of the Law against his old friend, and remorse gripped him. Half
an hour later he was in the train, on his way to London to intercept her
and cancel her mission.
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