He had been far from holding it a failure-
-long as he had waited for the appearance that was to make it a
success. He had waited for quite another thing, not for such a
thing as that. The breath of his good faith came short, however,
as he recognised how long he had waited, or how long at least his
companion had. That she, at all events, might be recorded as
having waited in vain--this affected him sharply, and all the more
because of his it first having done little more than amuse himself
with the idea. It grew more grave as the gravity of her condition
grew, and the state of mind it produced in him, which he himself
ended by watching as if it had been some definite disfigurement of
his outer person, may pass for another of his surprises. This
conjoined itself still with another, the really stupefying
consciousness of a question that he would have allowed to shape
itself had he dared. What did everything mean--what, that is, did
SHE mean, she and her vain waiting and her probable death and the
soundless admonition of it all--unless that, at this time of day,
it was simply, it was overwhelmingly too late? He had never at any
stage of his queer consciousness admitted the whisper of such a
correction; he had never till within these last few months been so
false to his conviction as not to hold that what was to come to him
had time, whether HE struck himself as having it or not.
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