Then she was not alone—even as she sat in the emptiness of the room. She put up her hands and covered her face with them.
"What—will happen?" she murmured. But she did not cry.
The deadliness of the blow which had stupefied her still left her barely conscious of earthly significances. But something of the dark mistiness was beginning to lift slowly and reveal to her vague shadows and shapes, as it were. If no one would believe that she was married to Donal, then people would think that she had been the kind of girl who is sent away from decent houses, if she is a servant, and cut off in awful disgrace from her family and never spoken to again, if she belongs to the upper classes. Books and Benevolent Societies speak of her as "fallen" and "lost." Her vision of such things was at once vague and primitive. It took the form of pathetic fictional figures or memories of some hushed rumour heard by mere chance, rather than of anything more realistic. She dropped her hands upon her lap and looked at the fire again.
"Now I shall be like that," she said listlessly. "And it does not matter. Donal knew. And I do not care—I do not care."
"The Duchess will send me away," she whispered next. "Perhaps she will send me away to-day. Where shall I go!" The hands on her lap began to tremble and she suddenly felt cold in spite of the fire. The sound of a knock on the door made her start to her feet. The woman who had looked sorry for her when she came in had brought a message.
"Her grace wishes to see you, Miss," she said.
"Thank you," Robin answered.
After the servant had gone away she stood still a moment or so.
"Perhaps she is going to tell me now," she said to the empty room.