The first sight of it had sickened. Now the physical effect had gone. But the nausea in passing had been replaced by another sensation, deadlier, equally human, that made her red and hot, blurred her eyes, set her quivering, shook her, put her thoughts on fire, vitriolised her with hate.
Nietzsche said that a woman's ability to hate is in proportion to her inability to charm. The brute omitted to add that a woman's ability to charm corresponds to her evolution.
There was nothing evolved about Cassy then. She had lapsed back into the primitive. Like Armide, she could have burned the palace that enchanted her. None the less, she did nothing. To do nothing may be very important. The inactivity saved her. During it, the vitriol vaporised; the hate fell by. She was still trembling, her hands were unsteady, but the fever was departing, the crisis had passed, the primitive had slunk back into the cellars of the subconscious, and, in the chair, to which without knowing it she had returned, she faced it.
Without, some one knocked and, getting no answer, accepted the invitation as most people do.
"Beg pardon, Mrs. Paliser. The car is at the door."
Cassy half turned. "What?"
Emma reconstructed it. "Whenever you are ready, mem, the car will be waiting."
Cassy turned away. "That will do."
"Thank you, mem."
With that air which servants assume, Emma pursed her lips, reopened them, thought better of it, closed them and closed too the door.