And that, gentlemen, is what a hot bath will do.
Now look on this picture.
Valerie lay as she had flung herself, face downward upon the bed. Save that one satin slipper had fallen off, she was fully dressed. One bare white arm pillowed her brow, covering her eyes—mercifully. Let us touch that gleaming shoulder. See? It is cold as ice. That little slipperless foot…. Cold as any stone. But then it is the month of December, and she has lain so for two hours. Two hours of agony. She can remember every look those steady grey eyes of Lyveden's have ever given her, and in the last two hours she has remembered them all. Inch by inch she has gone over the playground of their hearts: word by word she has recited their conversations: she has gathered great posies of dead blossoms, because they once smelled so sweet: she has trodden the lanes of Memory to her most grievous wounding, because they are still so dear….
Then there were other times, when Pride had her in a strait-jacket, and the very thought of Anthony made her eyes blaze.
She had been walking herself out of one of these moods, and was tramping rather wearily through the twilight and up the long drive, when the cough of a motor-horn behind her made her start to one side. The next moment a car flashed past….
It was the local doctor's Renault.
Valerie's heart stood still.
The next moment she was running like a deer….
The car beat her all ends up, and by the time she had reached the steps, the front door was shut. She pealed the bell frantically….
To the footman who answered it—