"Or a failure of things!" said Mrs. Valdana, following some train of thought of her own. There was a deeper melancholy in her voice, and he thought how tired and ill she looked.
"You ought to get away for a change, Mrs. Valdana," he said, when he handed her the cheque and shook hands in farewell. "You look like a woman who 's come to the end of her tether."
She felt like it too. She went home like a woman who has heard the sentence of death pronounced upon her. In the Metro she lay back in her corner with closed eyes and whispered to herself.
"What is the good? What is the good? Oh, that one might let go--lay it all down and go to rest!"
But she knew she could not. There are always ropes to bind the hopeless ones fast to life--to pull them forth from the shadows back to the bleak grey road of life. Bran was her rope.
At the concierge's lodge she was informed that several visitors had called and gone, but one, more persistent, waited for her on her landing.
"He has been many times, poor soul," said she, "and one has not the heart to refuse him entrance. I think he is one of those whom Art has been too much for."
Val hardly heard her. A sort of numb dulness that had taken possession of her prevented her from feeling anything but a passing vexation that she might not be alone; heavily she climbed the stair and came at last to the door. A tall loose figure in grey tweeds rose up at her from the doorstep.
"Val! Will you forgive me for dogging you like this?" said a humble trembling voice she did not know. She had to peer into his face and examine him before it dawned upon her that it was Horace Valdana.
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