Chapter 20

expansiveness, had simply fallen hopelessly in love with him at first sight. It was at that party at the Burlingtons. She realised now that she had practically thought of nothing else since. Probably she was spoilt, for she had not foreseen any difficulty; she had had always far more admirers than she cared for, and her difficulties had usually been in trying to get rid of them. He seemed to like her, but that was all. Mrs Raymond was, of course, the reason, but Mrs Raymond was over. She looked up at the clock again.

Ten minutes to six. Perhaps he had made it up with Mrs Raymond?... For the next ten minutes she suffered extraordinary mental tortures, then her anger consoled her a little. He had treated her too rudely! It was amazing--extraordinary! He was not worth caring for. At any rate, it showed he didn't care for her.... If it was some unavoidable accident, couldn't he have telephoned or telegraphed?... No; it was one of those serious things that one can only write about. He was with Mrs Raymond, she felt sure of that. But Mrs Raymond didn't like him.... Perhaps, after all, he had only been detained in some extraordinary way, she might hear directly....

She went up to her room, and was slightly consoled for the moment to find the clock there five minutes slower than the one in the drawing-room. She again arranged her hair and went into the hall, where she found two or three cards of people who had called, and been told she was out--an irritating detail--for nothing! Then she went back to the studio.

Even to be in the place where she had been waiting for him was something, it gave her a little illusion that he would be here again.... Could he really be an hour and a quarter late? It was just possible.

She heard a ring. Every sign of anxiety disappeared from her face. She was beaming, and got back into the old attitude, holding the book. She could hear her heart beating while there was some parley in the hall. Unable to bear it any more, she opened the door. It was someone with a parcel.

'What is it?'

'It's only the new candle-shades, miss. Shall I bring them in for you to see?'

'No, thank you....'

Candle-shades!

She put her hands over her eyes and summoned all her pride. Probably the very butler and her maid knew perfectly well she had been waiting at home alone for Mr Reeve. She cared absolutely nothing what they thought; but she felt bitter, revengeful to him. It was cruel.

Why did she care so much? She remembered letters and scenes with other people--people whose sufferings about her she felt always inclined to laugh at. She couldn't believe in it. Love in books had always seemed to her, although intensely interesting, just a trifle absurd. She couldn't realise it till now.

Another ring. Perhaps it was he after all! ...

The same position. The book, the bright blue eyes....

The door opened; Anne came in. It was striking seven o'clock.