At this moment he could feel a
holy compassion for them all. They were the helpless instruments of blind
chance. He could pardon Griffiths for his treachery and Mildred for the
pain she had caused him. They could not help themselves. The only
reasonable thing was to accept the good of men and be patient with their
faults. The words of the dying God crossed his memory:
Forgive them, for they know not what they do.
CXXII
He had arranged to meet Sally on Saturday in the National Gallery. She was
to come there as soon as she was released from the shop and had agreed to
lunch with him. Two days had passed since he had seen her, and his
exultation had not left him for a moment. It was because he rejoiced in
the feeling that he had not attempted to see her. He had repeated to
himself exactly what he would say to her and how he should say it. Now his
impatience was unbearable. He had written to Doctor South and had in his
pocket a telegram from him received that morning: "Sacking the mumpish
fool. When will you come?" Philip walked along Parliament Street. It was
a fine day, and there was a bright, frosty sun which made the light dance
in the street. It was crowded. There was a tenuous mist in the distance,
and it softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. He crossed
Trafalgar Square. Suddenly his heart gave a sort of twist in his body; he
saw a woman in front of him who he thought was Mildred.
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