"Now at last I am honest with myself," she whispered. "I have spoken the truth—the hateful truth, since it lays bare to me the inner meanness of my own nature. I no longer palliate my own repulsive qualities or attempt to excuse myself to myself. I admit my many faults. I call them by their real names. Now, possibly, I shall become calmer and more resigned. The completeness of my faith in him will come back. And then, some day in the future, when I tell him how I repent of my suspicions and rebellious doubts, he will forgive me and help me to eradicate my faults and make me more worthy of the wonderful gift of his love."
Then she lay still, exhausted by her paroxysm of self-accusation.
"Here you are at last! You do take an unconscionably long time saying good-night! I nearly gave up and went indoors to bed."
This chaffingly, from the terrace outside the veranda, in Marion Chase's hearty barytone.
"I imagine people in our situation usually have a good deal to say to each other."
Rustlings of silk and creakings followed, occasioned by the descent of a well-cushioned feminine body into a wicker chair.
"And pray, how far did you go with him?" still chaffingly.
"Only to the end of the carriage-drive, and then into the road for a minute to see the lightning. Really, it's too odd—quite creepy. Looking toward the County Gates, the sky seems to open and shut like the lid of a box."
"I shouldn't mind its opening wider and giving us some rain. It's too stuffy for words to-night. And then he proceeded to walk back with you, I suppose?"
"No, he didn't, because I dismissed him. I can be firm when I choose, you know; and I am sure it is wisest to begin as I mean to go on. I intend to be my own mistress—"