He had asked whether Ronder could spare him half an hour.
Ronder was delighted to spare it....
Ronder was in the liveliest spirits. He hummed a little chant to himself
as he paced his study, stopping, as was his habit, to touch something on
his table, to push back a book more neatly into its row on the shelf, to
stare for an instant out of the window into the green garden drenched with
the afternoon sun.
Yes, he was in admirable spirits. He had known some weeks of acute
discomfort. That phase was over, his talk with Brandon in the Cloisters
after the Cathedral service had closed it. On that occasion he had put
himself entirely in the right, having been before that, under the eye of
his aunt and certain critics in the town, ever so slightly in the wrong.
Now he was justified. He had humbled himself before Brandon (when really
there was no reason to do so), apologised (when truly there was not the
slightest need for it)--Brandon had utterly rejected his apology, turned
on him as though he were a thief and a robber--he had done all that he
could, more, far more, than his case demanded.
Pages:
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624