She was possessed with a pulsating memory of the evening before—of Anthony, and of the kiss he had left upon her lips. Then swift darts of fear shot through her that it might all be unreal—that, upon leaving her, he had yielded once more to the sway of his judgment. She did not want judgment, she wanted love.
As she looked at her image in the long mirror, meeting her haggard face and dilated eyes, she grew white with the foreboding of failure. What was there left in her that a man might love? What was she—the wreck of a woman's form—that she could immortalize a man's fugitive desire? Was it love, after all? Was it not pity, passing itself for passion? Her cheeks flamed and her pulses beat feverishly.
She turned from the glass and looked at her walking-gown lying upon the bed.
"I can't wait," she said, breathlessly. "I must see him. He must tell me with his own lips that it is true."
She dressed herself with quivering fingers, stumbling over the buttons of her coat. Then she put on her hat and tied a dark veil over her face.
As she came down-stairs she met Miss Ramsey in the hall.
"Mariana, you are not going out!" she exclaimed.
"Only a little way," said Mariana.
"But it has clouded. It may rain."
"Not before I return. Good-bye."