Mrs. Wilson prosed on. She was talking now of that winter she spent in Dublin, when she met Peter Wilson, to whom she was married later on.
Dorothy was conscious of answering yes, and no, at what seemed like proper intervals. She seemed to be sitting there through long months, and years, and she began to wonder whether she would be grey and bent with age by the time the visit was over. Then suddenly there was a soft knock at the door. Truscot entered, and said that a lady had come for Miss Sedgewick.
This was Miss Mordaunt, and Dorothy came down in the lift to join her in the entrance hall.
“Why, Dorothy, what is the matter with you?” asked the games-mistress in consternation. “Do you feel faint?”
“I think the room was hot,” murmured Dorothy in explanation, and then she turned blindly in the direction of the great entrance door, longing to feel the sweeping lift of the strong wind from the sea.
Without a word Miss Mordaunt took her by the arm, and led her out through the vestibule to the open porch, standing with her there to give her time to recover a little.
How good the wind was! There was a dash of salt spray in it, too, which was wonderfully reviving.
Out in the stormy west there was a rift of colour yet, where the clouds had been torn asunder, while a star winked cheerfully out from a patch of sky that was clear of cloud.
It was all very pleasant and very normal, and Dorothy had the sensation of just waking up from a particularly hideous nightmare.
The trouble was that the very worst part of the nightmare was with her still. She could not wake up from that, because it was a reality and no dream.