“Perhaps I am, but I am also unable to eat raw fish or human flesh. What are any of us but the logical results of traditions? Just look at this fog. Let me put your shawl round you.”
Helena turned. A fine white mist was pouring out of the forest on the other side of the creek. It had passed them, and was puffing slowly onward. It lay softly on the creek, covering the bright water. It swirled about the trees and moved lightly through the dark arbors above. It fled up the mountain beyond, and the forest showed through the silver veil like grey columns with capitals and bases of frozen spray.
“Yes, we must go,” said Helena, “or we shall be lost.”
CHAPTER XV.
Helena did not meet her guests at dinner that night, nor did she trouble to send word that she was ill. She rang for the Chinese butler, gave him an order, then locked her doors and sat motionless in her boudoir for hours. She pictured until her brain ached and her ears rang what her life with Clive could have been, and what his would be with Mary Gordon.
But despair was not in her as yet, for he was still under the same roof, and she had not played her last card. It was a card that she had half-consciously considered from the beginning, and during the last few days had looked full upon. To-night for the first time she realized that it was a hateful card, unworthy of her, but reminded herself that she was a woman who would, if necessary, walk straight to her purpose over cracking and spouting earth.
At twelve o’clock she sat before her dressing-table regarding herself attentively in the mirror. She wore a negligé of white crêpe and lace, which half revealed her neck and bust. Her unbound hair clung to her body like melted copper, which had just begun to stiffen into rings, and waves, and spirals. She had never looked more beautiful.
There was a knock at her door.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Allee gentlemens go to bled,” announced Ah Sing cautiously.