I knew that she saw Derrick, and that he instantly perceived her, and that a miserable sense of separation, of distance, of hopelessness overwhelmed him as he looked. After all, it was natural enough. For two years he had thought of Freda night and day; in his unutterably dreary life her memory had been his refreshment, his solace, his companion. Now he was suddenly brought face to face, not with the Freda of his dreams, but with a fashionable, beautifully dressed, much-sought girl, and he felt that a gulf lay between them; it was the gulf of experience. Freda's life in society, the whirl of gaiety, the excitement and success which she had been enjoying throughout the season, and his miserable monotony of companionship with his invalid father, of hard work and weary disappointment, had broken down the bond of union that had once existed between them. From either side they looked at each other--Freda with a wondering perplexity, Derrick with a dull grinding pain at his heart.
Of course they spoke to each other; but I fancy the merest platitudes passed between them. Somehow they had lost touch, and a crowded London drawing-room was hardly the place to regain it.
"So your novel is really out," I heard her say to him in that deep, clear voice of hers. "I like the design on the cover."
"Oh, have you read the book?" said Derrick, colouring.
"Well, no," she said truthfully. "I wanted to read it, but my father wouldn't let me--he is very particular about what we read."
That frank but not very happily worded answer was like a stab to poor Derrick. He had given to the world then a book that was not fit for her to read! This 'Lynwood,' which had been written with his own heart's blood, was counted a dangerous, poisonous thing, from which she must be guarded!
Freda must have seen that she had hurt him, for she tried hard to retrieve her words.
"It was tantalising to have it actually in the house, wasn't it? I have a grudge against the Hour, for it was the review in that which set my father against it." Then rather anxious to leave the difficult subject--"And has your brother quite recovered from his wound?"
I think she was a little vexed that Derrick did not show more animation in his replies about Lawrence's adventures during the war; the less he responded the more enthusiastic she became, and I am perfectly sure that in her heart she was thinking:
"He is jealous of his brother's fame--I am disappointed in him. He has grown dull, and absent, and stupid, and he is dreadfully wanting in small-talk. I fear that his life down in the provinces is turning him into a bear."
She brought the conversation back to his book; but there was a little touch of scorn in her voice, as if she thought to herself, "I suppose he is one of those people who can only talk on one subject--his own doings." Her manner was almost brusque.
"Your novel has had a great success, has it not?" she asked.
He instantly perceived her thought, and replied with a touch of dignity and a proud smile:
"On the contrary, it has been a great failure; only three hundred and nine copies have been sold."
"I wonder at that," said Freda, "for one so often heard it talked of."
He promptly changed the topic, and began to speak of the march past.
"I want to see Lord Starcross," he added. "I have no idea what a hero is like."
Just then Lady Probyn came up, followed by an elderly harpy in spectacles and false, much-frizzed fringe.
