She stood quite motionless, a bent figure, thinking. The day of her wedding came back to her, a day of indifferent obedience to her parents. All the long vista of days since rose before her mind—a level, monotonous line of ghosts.
Her lips trembled as if with cold; she muttered to herself in Polish, “I have no claim upon him.” What was it to her that he should go from her? what had it ever been? Go from her! when he had never been hers. And yet—a vision of Jocelyn, as she had stood that morning, smiling and graceful, talking to the birds, rose before her. A blind, wearing pain of jealous regret was come to torture her. She thought, “It is hard!”
She moved, with one hand on her breast, to the window and stood, looking out into the soft, hazy night. The shadow of her drooping, white-robed figure fell across the bar of light from the flaring lamp.
Yes! He had been very good to her, very good and gentle—few men, she thought, would have been so gentle to a helpless log, such as she had always been. And what had she given him in return? And now—too late! Well, it was natural, this which was happening, only she wished—bitterly, fiercely, vainly wished—that it had not come. She felt tired, and very far spent; he would not have had to wait long!
A faint stir of air ruffled the lace round her thin throat; a whisper behind her said, “Jocelyn!”
She turned to see Giles sitting up, with one hand stretched out, and rubbing his eyes with the other; as she turned he woke to his full consciousness, and a low “Ah, you!” escaped from his lips.
Again a choking spasm of jealousy came upon her, again a vision of the girl passed before her eyes, but she held the quiver out of her voice.
“It does not matter,” she said, but her eyes, black and mournful, looked wild in the dim, smoky light.
Giles put his hands before his face, and bent forward in his chair.
“I am sorry,” was all he said.