What did he really think of her? Did he ever guess that there was something else in her than this obstinacy, this troublesomeness with which she was forced to meet him? She was sorry for herself, much more than for him; because she must so chill and mislead a man who ought to understand her.
Looking up she saw a dim reflection of her own beauty in the glass above the mantelpiece. "No, I am not either a minx, or a wild-cat!"—she thought, as though she were angrily arguing with someone. "I could be as attractive, as 'feminine,' as silly as anyone else, if I chose! I could have lovers—of course—just like other girls—if it weren't"—
For what? At that moment she hardly knew. And why were her eyes filling with tears? She dashed them indignantly away.
But for the first time, this cause, this public cause to which she was pledged presented itself to her as a sacrifice to be offered, a noble burden to be borne, rather than as something which expressed the natural and spontaneous impulse of her life.
Which meant that, already, since her recapture by this English world, since what was hearsay had begun to be experience, the value of things had slightly and imperceptibly changed.
* * * * *
The days ran on. One evening, just before the first of the "Daughters'" meetings, which was to be held at Latchford, Winnington appeared in Lady Tonbridge's drawing-room to ask for a cup of tea on his way to a public dinner in Wanchester.
He seemed pre-occupied and worried; and she fed him before questioning him. But at last she said—
"You couldn't prevail on her to give up any of these performances?"
"Miss Delia? Not one. But it's only the Latchford one that matters.
Have you been talking to her?"