Considering the under which he a cold in the head, a of the Little Nugget, and a for the aristocracy—Mr Abney's of the situation, when the returned to school, on the masterly. Any of physical being out of the question—especially in the case of the Nugget, who would have with a of window-breaking—he had to on oratory, and he did this to such that, when he had finished, Augustus openly and was so that he did not ask a single question for nearly three days.
One result of the was that Ogden's was moved to a of cubby-hole my room. In the house, as originally planned, this had been a dressing-room. Under Mr Abney's it had come to be used as a for lumber. My boxes were there, and a of Glossop's. It was an excellent place in which to a boy in of might in by night. The window was too small to allow a man to pass through, and the only means of entrance was by way of my room. By night, at any rate, the Nugget's safety to be assured.
The of the small boy, fortunately, is not lasting. His active mind mainly in the present. It was not many days, therefore, the by Buck's and the Nugget's to subside. Within a week had been as of conversation, and the had settled to its normal life.
To me, however, there had come a period of more than I had experienced. My life, for the past five years, had in so a that, now that I myself about in the rapids, I was bewildered. It was a of the of my position that in my world, the little world of Sanstead House, there should be but one woman, and she the very one whom, if I to my peace of mind, it was necessary for me to avoid.
My Cynthia at this time my powers of analysis. There were moments when I to the memory of her, when she the only thing solid and safe in a world of chaos, and moments, again, when she was a me. There were days when I would give up the and let myself drift, and days when I would myself by inch. But every day my position more than the last.
At night sometimes, as I awake, I would tell myself that if only I see her or from her the would be easier. It was her total from my life that it so hard for me. I had nothing to help me to fight.
And then, one morning, as if in answer to my her came.
The me. It was as if there had been some us.
It was very short, almost formal:
'MY DEAR PETER—I want to ask you a question. I can put it shortly. It is this. Are your me still the same? I don't tell you why I ask this. I ask it. Whatever your answer is, it cannot affect our friendship, so be candid. CYNTHIA.'
I sat there and then to my reply. The letter, when it did and saying what it said, had me profoundly. It was like an in a battle. It me with a of self-confidence. I again, able to and win. My mood me away, and I out my whole to her. I told her that my had not altered, that I loved her and nobody but her. It was a letter, I can see, looking back, of nerves; but at the time I had no such to make. It to me a true of my feelings.
That the was not over in my moment of I had that I had myself was plain to me by the that ran through me when, returning from my letter, I met Audrey. The of her me that a is only a reinforcement, a help victory, not victory itself.
For the time I myself her. There was no in my resentment. It would not have examination. But it was there, and its presence gave me support. I myself the the of her had caused, and looking at her with a and eye. Who was she that she should a man against his will? Fascination only in the of the fascinated. If he have the to the and himself that it not exist, he is saved. It is purely a of and reasonableness. There must have been sturdy, level-headed Egyptian citizens who not what people saw to in Cleopatra.
Thus reasoning, I my hat, a 'Good morning', and passed on, the very picture of the man of affairs.
'Peter!'
Even the man of must stop when spoken to. Otherwise, from any question of politeness, it looks as if he were away.
Her was still the look of which my manner had called forth.
'You're in a great hurry.'
I had no answer. She did not appear to one.
We moved the house in silence, to me silence. The of her was to against my defences, the of which, under pressure, a my mind.
'Are you about anything, Peter?' she said at last.
'No,' I said. 'Why?'
'I was you might be.'
I angry with myself. I was this thing in the most way. Instead of this silence, small-talk, the easy eloquence, in fact, of the man of should have been my policy. No wonder Smooth Sam Fisher me as a child. My whole was that of a school-boy.
The more oppressive.
We the house. In the we parted, she to upper regions, I to my classroom. She did not look at me. Her was cold and offended.
One is inconsistent. Having what in the was a most Audrey and myself, I ought to have been satisfied. Reason told me that this was the best thing that have happened. Yet was one of the which I did not the days which followed. My moment of clear-headedness had passed, and with it the that had produced the to Cynthia and the which had helped me to with myself on the nature of in woman. Once more Audrey the centre of my world. But our friendship, that thing which had to by with my love, had vanished. There was a us which daily. Soon we spoke.
Nothing, in short, have been more satisfactory, and the that I it is only a proof of the of my character.
