Who dares not put it to the touch
To win or lose it all.”
Thea, all unconscious of the fate that hung over her, was all excitement in the prospect of the ball. She did not see much of her guardian, for the house was topsy-turvy with the preparations, and he remained closely shut up in the library, except when he met her at meals. He had not asked Thea to resume her rides with him, and the brief spirit of hope and courage that had inspired her at Orange Grove died out again under what seemed the careless friendliness of his manner.
“I must give up the struggle,” she said, hopelessly. “I do not believe he will ever care for any one again. I need not regard Miss Bentley as a rival, either. He is too self absorbed to think tenderly of her or me. I fooled myself thinking there was anything in his manner to me to inspire hope. It was only a way he had of showing me just a little more than friendliness because—because—he saved my life. But as for love, it is like that pretty poem of Ella Wheeler Wilcox;” and with a sigh she repeated:
“‘You said good-night, and the spell was over—
Too warm for a friend and too cold for a lover—
There was nothing else to say.’”
It was still early in the afternoon when Thea laid out upon the bed all her pretty things to be ready for dressing early that evening. She lingered some time over the airy white robe, the snowy, embroidered hose and slippers, admiring the silken lilies of the valley that were to match the garniture of the dress. She practiced airily before the mirror some moments with the exquisite white fan, then it occurred to her that perhaps there was something she could do for Mrs. de Vere, her heart bubbling over with gratitude to the woman who was so generous and kind.
“No, there is nothing you can do,” said the good lady. “I advise you, though, my dear, to take your hat and go out for a stroll through the grounds that you may get up a perfect complexion for to-night.”
Thea laughed and obeyed, and Mrs. de Vere, looking after her, sighed.