A sweet agitation possesses her. Her every thought is fraught with joy; and if at times a misgiving, a suspicion of the hopelessness of it all, comes as a shadow between her and the sun of her content (for is not her marriage with Luttrell a thing as remote now as when they parted?), she puts it from her and refuses to acknowledge a single flaw in this one day's happiness.
She brushes out her long hair, rolling it into its usual soft knot behind, and weaves a kiss or two and a few tender words into each rich coil. She dons her prettiest gown, and puts on all the bravery she possesses, to make herself more fair in the eyes of her beloved, lest by any means he should think her less worthy of regard than when last he saw her.
With a final, almost dissatisfied, glance at the mirror she goes down-stairs to await his coming, all her heart one glad song.
She tries to work to while away the time, but her usually clever fingers refuse their task, and the canvas falls unheeded to the floor.
She tries to read; but, alas! all the words grow together and form themselves into one short sentence: "He is coming—coming—coming."
Insensibly Tennyson's words come to her, and, closing her eyes, she repeats them softly to herself:
"O days and hours, your work is this,
To hold me from my proper place
A little while from his embrace,
For fuller gain of after-bliss.