“My dear, you are growing paler,” said Miss Sabrina one day. “Perhaps this sea-air of ours is not good for you.”
Eve wanted to reply: “Is it good to be watching every instant?—to be listening and starting and thinking one hears something?” “You are right; it is not,” she answered aloud; “all the same, I will stay awhile longer, if you will let me.”
“Oh, my dear—when we want you to live here!”
“Perhaps I shall die here,” Eve responded, with a laugh.
Miss Sabrina looked at her in surprise; for the laugh was neither gentle nor sweet.
Eve was tired, tired mentally and physically; this state of passive waiting taxed her; action of some sort, even though accompanied by the hardest conditions, would have been easier to her ardent unconquered will. She occupied herself with Jack; she said as little as she could to Ferdie; and she watched Cicely. Underneath this watchfulness there grew up a strong contempt for love.
X.
“EVE!” A hand on Eve’s shoulder.
Eve sat up in bed with a start; Cicely stood beside her, candle in hand. “Help me to dress Jack,” she said.