CHAPTER 36
His hands upon the counter, Warburton stared at the door by which
first Rosamund, then Bertha Cross, had disappeared. His nerves were
a-tremble; his eyes were hot. Of a sudden he felt himself shaken
with irresistible mirth; from the diaphragm it mounted to his
throat, and only by a great effort did he save himself from
exploding in laughter. The orgasm possessed him for several minutes.
It was followed by a sense of light-heartedness, which set him
walking about, rubbing his hands together, and humming tunes.
At last the burden had fallen from him; the foolish secret was blown
abroad; once more he could look the world in the face, bidding it
think of him what it would.
They were talking now--the two girls, discussing their strange
discovery. When he saw Rosamund this evening--of course he would
see her, as she had promised--her surprise would already have lost
its poignancy; he had but to tell the story of his disaster, of his
struggles, and then to announce the coming moment of rescue. No
chance could have been happier than this which betrayed him to these
two at the same time; for Bertha Cross's good sense would be the
best possible corrective of any shock her more sensitive companion
might have received. Bertha Cross's good sense--that was how he
thought of her, without touch of emotion; whilst on Rosamund his
imagination dwelt with exultant fervour. He saw himself as he would
appear in her eyes when she knew all--noble, heroic.
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