She fell back almost stunned, secretly railing at her ill fortune.
Janetta, the maid, leaned forward from the back seat.
“Do you wish anything, madame? You seem ill.”
She whispered back:
“Who are those people in front of us there?”
“Some people from your own town, madame; a Mrs. Flint, her brother, and her servant. The lady has been sick, and I heard the conductor telling some one back there that they were going South for her health.”
“Ah!” and Mrs. Varian shut her eyes and relapsed into pallor and silence again.
Janetta, good, faithful soul, watched her uneasily, feeling she was not well.
She was inwardly ill indeed—raging at the trick fate had played on her this day.
“To endure this thirty-six hours—the sight of him whenever I open my eyes—it is impossible!” she said to herself, in a sort of blank terror.