Page 634 - of-human-bondage-

Philip had thought of Norah often. When Mildred left
him his first thought was of her, and he told himself bit-
terly that she would never have treated him so. His impulse
was to go to her; he could depend on her pity; but he was
ashamed: she had been good to him always, and he had
treated her abominably.
‘If I’d only had the sense to stick to her!’ he said to him-
self, afterwards, when Lawson and Hayward had gone and
he was smoking a last pipe before going to bed.
He remembered the pleasant hours they had spent to-
gether in the cosy sitting-room in Vincent Square, their
visits to galleries and to the play, and the charming evenings
of intimate conversation. He recollected her solicitude for
his welfare and her interest in all that concerned him. She
had loved him with a love that was kind and lasting, there
was more than sensuality in it, it was almost maternal; he
had always known that it was a precious thing for which
with all his soul he should thank the gods. He made up his
mind to throw himself on her mercy. She must have suf-
fered horribly, but he felt she had the greatness of heart to
forgive him: she was incapable of malice. Should he write
to her? No. He would break in on her suddenly and cast
himself at her feet—he knew that when the time came he
would feel too shy to perform such a dramatic gesture, but
that was how he liked to think of it—and tell her that if she
would take him back she might rely on him for ever. He was
cured of the hateful disease from which he had suffered, he
knew her worth, and now she might trust him. His imagi-
nation leaped forward to the future. He pictured himself