Angel found her in her own special sanctum, wearing a soft silk tea-gown, and an expression of utter weariness and lassitude.
"Yes," she replied, in answer to her friend's exclamation, "I am indeed a wretched-looking specimen. I've had this fever before, and I know how it takes it out of me—between the fever in my blood, and the fever in my mind, I am almost extinct. See," and she held up an envelope, "he will keep on writing to me, although I never answer his letters. I think it is so cruel of him: and he comes here every day. His steamer leaves Bombay on Saturday, but he swears he will not leave India till he sees me again."
"Yes?"
"He will never see me again. No more than if I had died—I am dead, my heart is dead."
"Oh, Elinor, don't say that. You love me a little, and so many, many people love you."
"If they knew what you and I know, do you think they would love me?"
"Yes, and more than ever."
"But do you realise that I ache—yes, that is the word—to see Alan, to hear his voice, to look at him even once more—before he goes away," and her voice shook, "for ever? Do you know that I have written to him—oh, so many letters—mad, wild wicked letters, and destroyed them. I believe there is another spirit in my body, not the old restrained conscientious Elinor, but a mad, crazy spirit, who prates of love and the world well lost. Oh, my dear, you see in me a very sick woman mentally and physically—you are my doctor."
"What can I do for you?" and Angel laid her cool hand on her companion's burning head. "Tell me. I will do anything to help you."
"You can meet Alan—take him my good-bye to-morrow. Tell him he must leave on Saturday. People are all wondering why he stays on? and are looking about for the inducement. Tell him I shall often think of him, and pray for him, and pray that he may live a good unselfish life, share his wealth with others, and be happy. When we are old, old people we may perhaps meet—and that is all—except—good-bye."