She left the window and crossed the room again. The hands of the clock had made a half-hour's progress in their tedious march.
A book of poems lay on the table, and she opened it idly, her mental fever excited by the lighter words of one who had sounded the depths and sunk beneath.
| "If Midge will pine and curse its hours away, |
| Because Midge is not everything—for aye, |
| Poor Midge thus loses its one summer day, |
| Loses its all—and winneth what, I pray?" |
She threw the book aside and turned away—back to the window where there was dust and wind—back into the still room where the monotonous tick of the clock maddened her quivering mood. She walked to and fro in that silent waiting which is the part of women, and beside which the action of battle is to be faced with a song of thanksgiving.
The trembling of her limbs frightened her, and she flung herself upon a divan. The weakness passed, and she got up again. Another half-hour had gone.
All at once there was a ring at the bell. For an instant she felt her heart contract, and then a delirious dash of blood through her veins to her temples. Her pulses fluttered like imprisoned birds.
A footstep crossed the hall, and the door of the drawing-room opened.
"Mr. Ryder!"
She wavered for an instant and went forward to meet him with an hysterical laugh. Her eyes were like emeralds held before a blaze, and the intense, opaline pallor of her face was warm as if tinged by a flame.
He took her outstretched hand hungrily, his face flushing until the purplish tint rose to his smooth, white forehead.