The Duchess of Wight had written to her, and going to her dressing-table she re-read the note.
It was short, simply telling her that her mother had told of her arrival, and asking her to dine at 8.30 in Charles Street. Not she, she would not lose one second of the glorious anticipations that were hers now. She would sit here close to her fire and gloat over her joy. Sitting down, she took a sheet of paper and began to write——
"Dear Duchess,—Thanks so much for asking me to dine, but——"
She broke off and sat staring at the wall. To-morrow at this time what would have become of her? The world would have run its course, come to its end, and yet she would be still alive! Could she bear it?
She would have told her story; made these people understand that she could never be one of them; broken (for the time) Théo's young heart, and been reviled and cast out by Joyselle.
And she would have to return here, alone, broken with grief, hopeless. Drearily she looked round the room. It would all be the same; nothing would change; the very roses on her dressing-table would still be fresh and sweet, and—she?
Raising her head, she met her own eyes in a glass, and started. Her own beauty amazed her. "If he could see me now," she said aloud, "he couldn't call me 'petite fille.' He doesn't know I am a woman; he has seen me—as if through spectacles. If I had never known Théo, and then met him somewhere by chance——"
She recalled his frank, wondering amazement as she raised her veil that evening in the train.
"He sees me always with Théo's shadow between us. It is—unfair—and——"
She took a fresh sheet of paper and began her letter again: