And yet Kitty Carstairs was not at the very end of her wits. One thing she had in her power to do. She could starve herself! Yesterday she had scarcely touched food; to-day she had not broken her fast. The tempting meals had gone out of the room as they had been brought in. There on the table, with its mocking carnations, was a silver tray bearing sundry delicacies, exquisitely served, which the woman had left on her last visit for the night. It taxed the girl’s powers of resistance, but her spirit conquered her flesh.
“God, hear me,” she whispered; “let me not eat till I am convinced that Colin has had food.” She was feeling weak and somewhat faint, but the sickly headache had abated, and her mind was very clear.
“I will try once more,” she told herself. “I will pretend to be ill, and that may bring him. Then I will show him I am determined to starve. I shouldn’t be much use to him dead!”
Her finger was on the bell when she heard a sound in the passage. The bolt was drawn back, and Symington’s voice said: “Get to your bed. I don’t want to see you again to-night.” A rough voice answered: “Right you are, sir. Good night.”
Then Symington entered. He had been keeping himself firmly in hand all day; he had an exhausted look, and was rather pale.
Without preface he exclaimed in hurt tones: “Kitty, what’s wrong with the food?”
“Is your other prisoner getting the same?” she asked quietly, approaching the table.
His laugh was lost in a crash.
Kitty had lifted the tray and flung it at his feet.
“There’s your rubbish!” she panted, catching hold of a chair-back. “You can’t beat me!”