"Will he never change?" she asked herself, in despair. "Living under the same roof with me, seeing me day after day, will his heart never warm ever so little toward me?"
Once more the old resolve, to steal away from the house, came to her. Should she go to him, kneel at his feet, and sob out:
"I can not remain in this house any longer, because I—I—have learned to love you!"
She could picture the surprise on his face. Perhaps there would be anger, scorn. The eagle dared to look at the sun, the worm dared to creep into the tender heart of the rose. Was it strange that she had dared to love him?
Hers was a dreary fate, and she tried to bear it bravely. If she had only some one to confide in, some one to talk to! Was his heart dead because of his bitter disappointment?
[CHAPTER XXXIII.]
One morning Eugene Mallard informed his young wife at the breakfast-table that he had invited a party of friends from the adjoining city, and had just received word that they would be with them that day. This was sorrowful news to Ida, for she realized that she would see less of her husband when they came. But he seemed to await their arrival in a fever of impatience.
While she was wondering how many there would be in the party, her husband said, as if in answer to the unexpressed thought:
"There will be six in the party—Mrs. Staples and her two daughters, Dora and Louisa, Captain Drury, Arthur Hollis, and—and Vivian Deane."