What fell from Ina's lips was not of a kind to make Zoe more her friend.
Her mind seemed now like a bird tied by a long silken thread. It made large excursions, but constantly came back to her love. Sometimes that love was happy, sometimes unhappy. Often she said “Edward!” in the exquisite tone of a loving woman; and whenever she did, Zoe received it with a sort of shiver, as if a dagger, fine as a needle, had passed through her whole body.
At last, after telling some tenor that he had sung F natural instead of F sharp, and praised somebody's rendering of a song in “Il Flauto Magico,” and told Ashmead to make no more engagements for her at present, for she was going to Vizard Court, the poor soul paused a minute, and uttered a deep moan.
“Struck down by the very hand that was vowed to protect me!” said she. Then was silent again. Then began to cry, and sob, and wring her hands.
Zoe put her hand to her heart and moved feebly toward the door. However, she stopped a moment to say, “I am no use here. You would soon have me raving in the next bed. I will send Fanny.” Then she drew herself up. “Miss Gale, everybody here is at your command. Pray spare nothing you can think of to save—my brother's guest.”
There came out the bitter drop.
When she had said that, she stalked from the room like some red Indian bearing a mortal arrow in him, but too proud to show it.
But when she got to her own room she flung herself on her sofa, and writhed and sobbed in agony.
Fanny Dover came in and found her so, and flew to her.
But she ordered her out quite wildly. “No, no; go to her, like all the rest, and leave poor Zoe all alone. She is alone.”