"
Harry followed the Pretender into the outer room, shambling
awkwardly. The progress from failure to failure dazed him. He recalled
afterwards, as many petty matters of this time stayed vivid in his
memory, a preposterous blunder into a chair. The Pretender sat down
and stretched at his ease. "We are too late, I think," he said coldly.
"It is the genius of my family." He took snuff. "You may go, if you
will, Mr. Boyce."
Harry looked up and struggled to collect himself. "Not till you are in
safety," he said, and was dully aware of some discomfort. The dying
woman, the sheer ugliness of death, the sordid emotions about her numbed
the life in him. He felt himself in a world inhuman. Yet, even
afterwards, he seems not to have discovered anything ignoble in his
admired Pretender. The blame was fate's that mocked coldly at the hopes
and affections of men.
"I am obliged, sir," said the Pretender, and so they waited together....
After a little while of gloomy silence in that bare room, Masham broke
in, beckoning and muttering: "Sir, sir, the Queen is dead."
The Pretender stood up. "_Enfin_" said he, with a shrug.
CHAPTER XXV
SAUVE QUI PEUT
"Sir, you must be gone instantly," says Masham.
"You are officious, my lord." The Pretender stared at him.
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