Laces, linens, embroideries—all by the dozen, by the box—that week came pouring into Byewolde. With conflicting, curious emotions Bab bought things and had them sent home. There were dresses, too, and wraps of all sorts. There were boxes of gloves, boxes of silk stockings, dainty bundles of lingerie. With all these things added to what she had already, her rooms were filled to overflowing. Bab, in spite of herself, felt her interest reawaken. The things were charming, the daintiest and the finest that could be bought. The result was that before long she began to have a pride in these fast-accumulating possessions. What interested her most of all was the linen, much of which there had even been time to embroider with her monogram. She saw herself, in the years to come, established in the life she already had learned to love. Money, luxury, power—all these had come to make their insidious appeal. The balm of dollars! The healing hyssop of ease! She did not love David, but some day he would have millions! Again she heard that inner, unacknowledged voice whisper to her conscience. She must live the life she'd accepted! There was no escape from it. So why not take David and all David offered, and be happy? To be sure, she was marrying neither for wealth nor for place, but because she had to. Just the same, if wealth, if place, were offered with the marriage, why not take them?
Ten o'clock had just struck. A half-hour before this, Bab, pleading fatigue, had excused herself downstairs and, slipping up to her bedroom, had exchanged her dinner dress for a dressing gown. Her animation had for the moment revived. Humming lightly to herself, she was occupying her leisure by going over and rearranging the day's batch of purchases when her maid entered the room.
"What is it, Mawson?" Bab asked.
"Another parcel, miss."
Bab glanced at the clock. She was astonished to receive anything at that hour.
"For me?" she exclaimed.
"It's a present, I think," volunteered the maid. "A man from Mr. Blair's just left it."
At the name Bab colored faintly. She knew, she thought, from whom that present had come. Since she had last seen Linda Blair a week had passed, yet Bab in that time had not forgotten a word of their interview. Silently she took the parcel from the maid. Mawson lingered, busying herself with the litter of paper, string and cardboard boxes on the floor. Bab gazed at the parcel in her hand, then as irresolutely she glanced at the Englishwoman.
"Never mind that, Mawson," she directed. "I'll ring when I need you."
When the maid had departed Bab slowly undid the wrappings. For years Linda had been the intimate companion, the playmate, of David, and Bab was curious to see now what sort of a wedding gift Linda would make the girl her friend was to marry. Linda she had always liked. In her loneliness now she wished she had been able to make Linda her friend. There was something substantial about her. She was a person, Bab knew, one could rely upon in a crisis.