And behind his immediate repentance at the quarrel there also bit into his
heart the knowledge that there was truth in the accusation that Cardillac
had flung at him. He _had_ been morbid, he _had_ been selfish. Absorbed by
his own grief at Stephen's loss he had given no thought to any one else. He
had expected Clare to be like himself, had made no allowance for
differences of temperament, had.... Poor Peter had never before known an
hour of such miserable self-condemnation. Had he known where to find him he
would have gone that very instant to beg Cards' pardon.
Now, in comparison with his own black deeds, Mrs. Rossiter seemed an angel.
He should show her in the future that he could mend his ways. Clare should
make no further complaint of him. He found himself in Leicester Square and
still wrapt in his own miserable thoughts went into the Empire. He walked
up and down the Promenade wondering that so many people could take the
world so lightly. Very far away a gentleman in evening dress was singing
a song--his mouth could be seen to open and shut, sometimes his arms
moved--no sound could be heard.
The Promenade was packed. Up and down ladies in enormous hats walked
languidly. They all wore clothes that were gorgeous and a little soiled.
They walked for the most part in couples and appeared to be absorbed in
conversation, but every now and again they smiled mechanically, recognised
a friend or saw somebody who was likely very shortly to become one.
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