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him. Since that day in Devonshire, when Claude had endeavored to intervene, the latter had spoken scarcely a dozen words to him. He shook hands with Jim at the station and with Angela, but his congratulations sounded weak and insincere.
Jim speedily forgot him in the thrill of the moment. Nice was their destination--Nice in all her October glory. He was actually on honeymoon with the object of his dreams and ambitions!
He found himself very much alone. In Nice Angela met scores of familiar faces. She spent most of her time with these friends, leaving Jim to the terrible naked truth--to wrestle with it as best he might. He had kissed her at Little Badholme, had apparently thawed for ever the chilly heart of her. But here it was again--the frigid exterior that no kisses could melt. What had happened to her? Was it that she had never cared at all--that her acceptance of his marriage offer was dictated by ulterior motives?
Before it was time for them to return to England the last scrap of illusion was knocked out of him. More miserable than ever he had been in his life, he sought for some solution. It was so obvious she didn't care for him. He saw that, in the company of her "high-browed" friends, she despised him. He found himself sitting down under this contempt--meekly accepting the r?le of enslaved husband, hand-servant to a beautiful and presumably soulless woman.
On the night before they left she came back to the hotel very late, to find him sitting in a brown study. He watched her, furtively, discarding the expensive cloak, and taking off the heavy pearl necklace he had been fool enough to buy. He stood up and stared for a moment, in silence, out over the moonlit sea. When he turned she was going to her room.
"Angela!"
She stopped, not liking the imperative note in his voice.
"What's wrong?"
"Wrong?"
"Yep--with us?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I wasn't aware that anything was wrong."
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