She took the child in her arms and sat down in the rocking-chair, holding it pressed against her breast and staring over its head, indifferent to its crying, and the feeble beating of its little hands.
She had her tea and bread with it; then she lay down on her cot, always with the child in her arms, and fell asleep. Mrs. Kennedy looked in upon them, saw them both quiet, the little, downy head resting against Angelica’s shoulder, and she devoutly hoped that this period of rest might solace her daughter after whatever demoniacal adventure she had undergone that night. She picked up her pail and went out to work.
When she came in again at five o’clock, they were both gone.
II
Polly was reading, stretched out on the sofa of her charming little room, near the window which gave her a fine view of the Hudson and a cool breeze. Her maid had gone out, and she was quite alone in her little flat, content and languid, rejoicing in her dignified solitude.
Here she was living as she liked to live, with her music, her books, her very few and very casual friends, and long, long hours of delicate idleness. She enjoyed the blissful serenity of a convalescent, or a freed prisoner. After her two heart-breaking experiences of married life, after the anguish of her dear child’s death, she was happy now to be quite alone, to love no one, and to be hurt by no one. She wished to spend the rest of her life alone.
Eddie had arranged her affairs so that she once more received her decent little income. She didn’t enquire as to how he had done this. She suspected that for the present it must be coming direct from his pocket, but she preferred not to know.
She had a vague intention of some day divorcing Vincent, but she was never capable of action without some spur. There wasn’t any cause now. She was rid of him, and she had her money again. Her deepest instinct—the instinct of a woman by temperament unfitted to make her own way in the world—caused her to value her money above anything. It meant all that was desirable in life—ease, dignity, and freedom.
How happy she was in her loose, fresh white wrapper, looking so much younger, so much more charming—smoking her thin little cigarettes and reading some book which entirely engaged her attention—agreeably conscious, none the less, of a nice little supper left by her devoted servant in the ice-box! It was only half-past five, but she was growing hungry, and she was dallying with this idea of supper, when the door-bell rang.
This was startling, for the boy in the hall down-stairs was supposed to stop intruders and to telephone up to her before admitting them. And so loud a ring!