"I know nothing, sir, except that I have been fooled," she answered, her eyes flashing angry fire at him from under the darkly-pencilled brows. "Why are you such ages in taking your leave? Good-night, sir, good-night."
She pulled a bell-rope with an impetuous hand, which sent a loud ringing through the silent house. Two lacqueys flew to answer her summons, thinking there was something amiss.
"The door!" she said. "Show Mr. Durnford to his chair."
The moment he was gone she flung herself upon her sofa, tore down the elaborate edifice of powdered locks, plucked open her bodice, and abandoned herself to a fit of hysteria. She lay, face downwards, on the sofa in her disorder and dejection, like Cleopatra after Actium, when Cæsar's swift galleys had come down upon her, and all the intoxication of false hope was over.
She lay thus for about a quarter of an hour—a long agony—and then rose suddenly and hurried to her dressing-room, which was the adjoining apartment.
Here she changed her brocade for an Indian silk nightgown, bathed her swollen eyelids with scented water, and gathered up her streaming locks before she rang for her maid.
"I have changed my mind, Zélie," she said; "I shall go to Lady Townley's drum. My headache is cured."
Zélie expressed herself enchanted, despatched messengers right and left for her ladyship's hair-dresser and her ladyship's chairmen, lighted the candles in her ladyship's powdering-closet, brought forth jewel-cases, satin trains, brocaded sacques, embroidered petticoats, for choice.
"I will wear white," said Judith, without so much as a side-glance at that heap of finery; "nothing but white. I have a foolish fancy, Zélie. I should like to look a bride."
"Her ladyship has always a bridal air, a fresh young beauty which shines out amidst all other faces," protested the Frenchwoman.