And Clodagh, keenly sensitive to this altered bearing, stood silent, offering no apology. At last, as though the tension of the position compelled her to action, she held out her hand in a half-diffident, half-defiant gesture.
"Good-night, Lady Diana! Good-night, Rose! Good-night, Mr. Mansfeldt. Good-night!" Last of all, her fingers touched Deerehurst's, and as his cold hand closed over hers, he bent his head deferentially.
"Good-night, partner! Sleep well! We will be more fortunate in the future."
But Clodagh gave no sign that she had even heard. Almost ungraciously, she freed her hand; and, without glancing at any of the occupants of the room, moved quickly to the door, and passed out into the corridor.
Her brain seemed to burn, as she mounted the long flight of shallow stairs that led to the bedrooms; her head ached; her senses felt confused. She had lost money to a far greater extent than she could possibly afford; she had alienated the friend she had so ardently desired to make; she had acted wilfully—absurdly—wrongly.
She opened the door of her bedroom with hasty, unsteady fingers. The lamp on the writing-table was lighted, but the rest of the room was dim; through the open windows came a slight breeze that stirred the chintz curtains; in a chair by the dressing-table sat Simonetta in an attitude of weariness.
The sight of the woman's tired figure jarred on Clodagh's over-strained nerves.
"You can go, Simonetta!" she said sharply. "I'll put myself to bed."
Simonetta started up remorsefully.
"Pardon, signora——" she exclaimed.