It seemed too beautiful a day for politics. After all,
politics--one has them always with one; but the spring passes.
He saw her on to a bus at Kingston, and himself went back by train. They
agreed they would not mention it to Mrs. Phillips. Not that she would
have minded. The danger was that she would want to come, too; honestly
thinking thereby to complete their happiness. It seemed to be tacitly
understood there would be other such excursions.
The summer was propitious. Phillips knew his London well, and how to get
away from it. There were winding lanes in Hertfordshire, Surrey hills
and commons, deep, cool, bird-haunted woods in Buckingham. Each week
there was something to look forward to, something to plan for and
manoeuvre. The sense of adventure, a spice of danger, added zest. She
still knocked frequently, as before, at the door of the
hideously-furnished little house in North Street; but Mrs. Phillips no
longer oppressed her as some old man of the sea she could never hope to
shake off from her shoulders. The flabby, foolish face, robbed of its
terrors, became merely pitiful.
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