Thus ended our talk on justice.
Never has my head been so up in the air. I am sure had Cleopatra been dragged to Rome in Augustus's triumph she would not have walked with more pride and contempt than I through the hall of Vavasour House.
The old servant was waiting for me, and Véronique, and the brougham.
"Call a hansom, if you please," I said, and stood there like a statue while one of the footmen had to run into St. James's Street for it.
Then we drove away, and I felt my teeth chatter while my cheeks burned. Oh, what an end to my scheme and my dreams of, perhaps, success!
But what a beast of a man! What a cruel, warped, miserable creature. I will not let him separate me from Robert—never, never! He is not worth it. I will wait for him—my darling—and if he really loves me, some day we can be happy, and if he does not—but, oh, I need not fear.
I am still shaking with passion, and shall go to bed. I do not want any dinner.
Tuesday morning, November 29th.
Véronique would not let me go to bed, she insisted upon my eating, and then after dinner I sat in an old but lovely wrap of white crêpe, and she brushed out my hair for more than an hour—there is such a tremendous lot of it, it takes time.