Even Franks, good fellow
as he was, seemed to grow lukewarm in friendship. The painter had an
appointment for a Sunday in May at Will's lodgings, to smoke and
talk, but on the evening before he sent a telegram excusing himself.
Vexed, humiliated, Warburton wasted the Sunday morning, and only
after his midday meal yielded to the temptation of a brilliant sky,
which called him forth. Walking westward, with little heed to
distance or direction, he presently found himself at Kew; on the
bridge he lingered awhile, idly gazing at boats, and; as he thus
leaned over the parapet, the sound of a voice behind him fell
startlingly upon his ear. He turned, just in time to catch a glimpse
of the features which that voice had brought before his mind's eye,
Bertha Cross was passing, with her mother. Probably they had not
seen him. And even if they had, if they had recognised him--did he
flatter himself that the Crosses would give any sign in public of
knowing their grocer?
With his eyes on the graceful figure of Bertha, he slowly followed.
The ladies were crossing Kew Green; doubtless they would enter the
Gardens to spend the afternoon there. Would it not be pleasant to
join them, to walk by Bertha's side, to talk freely with her,
forgetting the counter, which always restrained their conversation?
Bertha was nicely dressed, though one saw that her clothes cost
nothing. In the old days, if he had noticed her at all she would
have seemed to him rather a pretty girl of the lower middle class,
perhaps a little less insignificant than her like; now she shone for
him against a background of "customers," the one in whom he saw a
human being of his own kind, and who, within the imposed limits, had
given proof of admitting his humanity.
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