With half-closed eyes she recalled all that Jack had said about Stephen Davenant, and it did not require much effort to recall anything Jack had said, for every word was graven on her heart, and it had seemed to her as if he had spoken disparagingly of this Stephen, and had implied that he was not as good as he was supposed to be.
She herself, as she lay, her beautiful head pillowed on her round white arm, was conscious of a strange feeling which had taken possession of her in Stephen’s presence—not of dislike, but something of doubt, something also of a vague fear.
And yet he could not but be good and generous, for was it not to him that she owed all that had happened to her? And did not his mother, the timid, gentle woman who had already won Una’s heart, speak of him as great and good?
Alas! and a faint flush stole over her cheek, and a long sigh stole from her lips—alas! it was that other—Jack Newcombe—who was bad; it was he whom she was to avoid.
And so, notwithstanding that she was in the very city of her dreams, she fell asleep with a vague sadness in her heart.
Quiet as Walmington Square is, the noise of the market carts passing to Covent Garden awoke her soon after dawn.
She looked round with a stare of amazement as her eyes fell upon the dainty room, with its costly furniture and rich hangings, and listened for a moment, as if expecting to hear the rustle of the great oaks which surrounded the cottage at Warden; then she remembered the change that had befallen her, and springing out of bed, ran to the window.
All the square was asleep; the blinds were closely drawn in all the houses, and only the birds on the trees seemed thoroughly awake.
She could hear the market carts rumbling in the great thoroughfare beyond, and as she had gone asleep with the rattle of wheels in her ears, she asked herself, wonderingly:
“Does London never rest?”