Invariably, now, her moments of sensuous pleasure ended in this dread of something beyond—of a sudden drowning of beauty and delight—of a future unknown and cruel, coming to meet her, like some armed assassin in a narrow path.
William! When it came could William save her? "William is a darling!" she said to herself, her face full of yearning.
As for that other—it gave her an intense pleasure to think of the flames creeping up the form and face of the photograph. Should she hear, perhaps, in a week or two that he had been seized with some mysterious illness, like the witch-victims of old? A shiver ran through her, a thrill of repentance—till the bitter lines of the poem came back to memory—lines describing a woman with neither the courage for sin nor the strength for virtue, a "light woman" indeed, whom the great passions passed eternally by, whom it was a humiliation to court and a mere weakness to regret. Then she laughed, and began again with passionate zest upon the sheets before her.
A sound of approaching footsteps on the wood-path. She half rose, smiling.
The branches parted, and Darrell appeared. He paused to survey the oread vision of Lady Kitty.
"Am I not to the minute?" He held up his watch in front of her.
"So you got my note?"
"Certainly. I was immensely flattered." He threw himself down on the moss beside her, his sallow, long-chinned face and dark eyes toned to a morning cheerfulness, his dress much fresher and more exact than usual. "But he is one of the men who look so much better in their old clothes!" thought Kitty.
"Well, what can I do for you, Lady Kitty?" he resumed, smiling.
"I wanted your advice," said Kitty—not altogether sure, now that he was there beside her, that she did want it.