“He felt perhaps as I feel now,” she thought, pressing her hand against her bosom; “I didn’t know then—I didn’t know!”
She turned to walk along the cliff.
“If I was sure,” she told herself, “I think that I would—” but there she paused, shuddered violently, and left the phrase unfinished.
At luncheon Jack was uncommonly cheerful. He asked her if she didn’t want to go to Nice and spend one of the two days before their departure. She shook her head.
“But why don’t you go?” she said; “you could just as well as not.”
“I don’t know but that I will,” he replied; “only I hate to leave you here alone.”
“Oh, I’ll do very well,” she assured him, smiling.
About four that afternoon he came into her room, where she was lying in a reclining-chair by the window, looking listlessly out and dreaming of Munich. He stood before her for a long time, contemplating her and the gown of lace and silk which foamed about her throat and arms, and then cascaded down to spread in billows on the floor.
“I declare,” he said suddenly, “it seems wasteful somehow for you to dress like that just to sit here alone.”
Her mouth curved a little.