Night came, but Ann could not sleep. She tossed restlessly from side to side, her thoughts going round and round in an endless weary circle. Tony and Brett and Eliot, three men who had loved and desired her, each in his own way, and between them they had managed to crush out every atom of happiness that life could hold for her.
Towards morning, utterly worn out, she dropped into an uneasy slumber, from which—it seemed to her—Maria roused her almost at once, and with the return of consciousness the whole deadening weight of recollection fell on her once more. She raised herself wearily on her elbow.
“Is it really time to get up?” she asked languidly. “I feel as if I’d only just gone to sleep.”
Maria, bustling about the room pulling up the blinds and drawing back the curtains, paused and looked at the slender figure lying in the bed with eyes full of concern. They were like the faithful, yearning eyes of a dog who senses that you are in trouble but is powerless to help. He can do nothing—only love you. And Maria knew that her adored young mistress was in sore trouble, and that she could do nothing to help—only love her.
“There, drink your cup o’ tea, miss, and you’ll feel better,” she said hearteningly. “A body feels different with a cup o’ tea inside. I suppose you’ve heard the news—since Mr. Forrester himself was here only yesterday?”
Ann set down her tea-cup sharply, her heart beating apprehensively. What was she going to hear now? Something else that would hurt her afresh? She glanced shrinkingly towards Maria.
“No. What news?” she faltered. She did not want to be hurt any more. She felt as though she wouldn’t be able to bear it.
“Why, ‘twas the milkman told me. Mr. Forrester’s off from White Windows to-day. Going away quite sudden like in that there Minx of his.” She nodded in the direction of the bay.
The ghost of a smile flitted across Ann’s tired face.