Somehow her arm
had been drawn into Baruch's, and there it remained.
'Have you any friends in London?' said Baruch.
'There are Mrs Caffyn, her son and daughter, and there is Mr A. J.
Scott. He was a friend of my father.'
'You mean the Mr Scott who was Irving's assistant?'
'Yes.'
'An addition--' he was about to say, 'an additional bond' but he
corrected himself. 'A bond between us; I know Mr Scott.'
'Do you really? I suppose you know many interesting people in
London, as you are in his circle.'
'Very few; weeks, months have passed since anybody has said as much
to me as you have.'
His voice quivered a little, for he was trembling with an emotion
quite inexplicable by mere intellectual relationship. Something came
through Clara's glove as her hand rested on his wrist which ran
through every nerve and sent the blood into his head.
Clara felt his excitement and dreaded lest he should say something to
which she could give no answer, and when they came opposite Great
Russell Street, she withdrew her arm from his, and began to cross to
the opposite pavement. She turned the conversation towards some
indifferent subject, and in a few minutes they were at Great Ormond
Street. Baruch would not go in as he had intended; he thought it was
about to rain, and he was late. As he went along he became calmer,
and when he was fairly indoors he had passed into a despair entirely
inconsistent--superficially--with the philosopher Baruch, as
inconsistent as the irrational behaviour in Bedford Square.
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