Let Ibsen be a great poet and dramatist, or a literary fraud, there are one or two things which he says which strike men with the force of a revelation; and when he speaks of the love-life which is given to every man and woman, and calls him and her a murderer who kills it, he speaks truly, and as one inspired.
Nell's love-life lay dead at her feet, and Drake, though all unconsciously, had slain it.
She wiped her lips, though they were dry and parched, and with trembling hands smoothed her hair—the lips and the hair Drake had kissed so often, with such rapture—and slowly, fighting for strength and self-possession, passed into the ballroom.
The brilliant light, the music, the dancers, acted upon her overstrained nerves as a dash of cold water upon a swooning man. For the first time since the blow had fallen pride awoke in her. She had lost Drake forever; but she would make no moan; other women before her had lost their lovers and their husbands by death, and they had to bear their bereavements; she must learn to bear hers.
A young fellow hurried up to her with a mingled expression of relief and complaint.
"Oh, Miss Lorton; this is ours!" he said. "I have been looking for you everywhere, everywhere, on my honor, and I was nearly distracted!"
Nell moistened her lips and forced a smile.
"I have been out on the terrace; it—it was hot."
"And—you didn't feel faint? You look rather pale now!" he said apprehensively. "Would you rather not dance?"
"No, no; I would rather dance!" she replied, with a kind of feverish impatience. "I—I think I am cold." She shivered a little. "I shall be all the better for a dance!"