"I could run away again," she thought. "Oh, what a mistake I made to run away the last time! What an awful, awful thing it is for any girl to do the sort of wrong I did then! I should be so happy but for that. I should never take the slightest notice of a girl like Susan Marsh; and I should be very fond of Star, and Angela, and Lucy, and Louisa, and even of Jane. Jane is quite a good sort of girl. They are all of them nice—all except Susan, and perhaps Maud Thompson. Oh, what is to be done?"
She writhed in her misery, but once again the absolute stillness soothed her, and she was dozing off to sleep when she heard a door open at the far end of the room. A girl's voice said "Hush!" and then there was silence. Christian turned her head.
"Is there anybody there?" she called out; but there was no answer, only she fancied that she heard a rustle.
She was half-disposed to rise and go down the long room to find out who was hiding; but after all, she thought, it did not matter. She was yielding more and more each moment to the influence of her comfortable seat, the pleasant fire, and the feeling of warmth and rest. Her troubles did not press her so close; they seemed to go away from her, to recede in the distance. It seemed to her that she did not greatly care what happened. She could not help herself. How sleepy she was! How pleasant the flames looked! When she shut her eyes she saw pictures. They were pictures of her old life—her mother's boudoir, and the nest of all nests behind the curtains—the softness of those pillows on which her head had once rested. Then she was in the attic with her dreams of past and future glory, her romances, her spells of idealism. Or she was with her father, and he was telling her about her grandmother, and what he hoped she herself would be. Then, again, she was in those awful slums near Paddington, and Mrs. Carter was looking in at the window. Christian cried out in her sleep:
"Go away! Don't touch me."
She started up as she spoke, and was wide awake again. A girl was walking down the room. Star's purse still lay in Christian's lap.
"What is it? What are you doing? You frightened me," said Christian.
"Sorry," replied Susan in a nonchalant voice. "I came to look for a book—the 'Heir of Redclyffe.' Don't you like it? Don't you think it a beautiful story?"
"I read it a couple of years ago; I forgot it now," replied Christian.