She disappeared through the trees.
Mortimer sat down on the tee-box, and buried his face in his hands. For
a time he could think of nothing but the cruel blow he had received.
This was the end of those rainbow visions of himself and her going
through life side by side, she lovingly criticizing his stance and his
back-swing, he learning wisdom from her. A croquet-player! He was
married to a woman who hit coloured balls through hoops. Mortimer
Sturgis writhed in torment. A strong man's agony.
The mood passed. How long it had lasted, he did not know. But suddenly,
as he sat there, he became once more aware of the glow of the sunshine
and the singing of the birds. It was as if a shadow had lifted. Hope
and optimism crept into his heart.
He loved her. He loved her still. She was part of him, and nothing that
she could do had power to alter that. She had deceived him, yes. But
why had she deceived him? Because she loved him so much that she could
not bear to lose him. Dash it all, it was a bit of a compliment.
And, after all, poor girl, was it her fault? Was it not rather the
fault of her upbringing? Probably she had been taught to play croquet
when a mere child, hardly able to distinguish right from wrong.
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