“To whom?” he asked, almost angrily.
“Mr Marcus Welles.”
“That painted fop!” cried Derwent.
Phoebe was silent.
“You really mean that? She is positively promised to him?”
“She is promised to him.”
Phoebe spoke in a dull, low, dreamy tone. She felt as though she were in a dream: all these events which were passing around her never could be real. She heard Osmund Derwent’s bitter comments, as though she heard them not. She was conscious of only one wish for the future—to be left alone with God.
Osmund Derwent was extremely disappointed in Phoebe. He had expected much more sympathy and consideration from her. He said to himself, in the moments which he could spare from the main subject, that Phoebe did not understand him, and did not feel for him in the least. She had never loved anybody—that was plain!
And meantime, simply to bear and wait, until he chose to leave her, taxed all Phoebe’s powers to her uttermost.
She was left alone at last. But instead of going back to the house, where she had no certainty of privacy, Phoebe plunged into the shade of a clump of cedars and cypresses, and sat down at the foot of one of them.