Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart;
’Tis woman’s whole existence.
Byron.
Judith slept far into the morning the sound, deep sleep of exhaustion; that sleep of the heavy-hearted from which, almost by an effort of will, the dreams are banished.
The first thing of which she was aware was the sound of Rose’s voice, and then of Rose herself standing over her with a plate and a cup of coffee in her hand. Judith raised herself on her elbow; a vague sense of calamity clung to her; her eyes were heavy with more than the heaviness of sleep.
“It is ten o’clock,” cried Rose. “I have brought you your breakfast. Rather handsome of me, isn’t it?”
“Yes, very,” said Judith, smiling faintly. “How came I to sleep so late?”
It was quite an event in her well-ordered existence; she realized it with a little shock which set her memory in motion.
Judith drank her coffee hastily and sprang out of bed. She went through her toilet with even more care and precision than usual; there is nothing more conducive to self respect than a careful toilet.
Nothing had happened; everything had happened. Judith felt that she had grown older in the night.
All day long people came and went and gossiped; gossiped loudly and ceaselessly of last night’s party; more cautiously and at intervals of Mr. Ronaldson’s death.
In the evening Adelaide, Esther, and Mrs. Sachs came in, but not Reuben. Not Reuben—she knew her sentence.