But the book did not prove very interesting. Ella yawned, then gave a sort of groan, and ended by flinging it aside.
“Do you not care for that book?” asked Madelene calmly. “I think I like it. But the other new Mudie books are in the drawing-room.”
“I don’t think I should like any book to-day,” said Ella frankly. “I do feel so stupid. Do you never feel that sort of way, Madelene?” she went on with a sudden irresistible craving for sympathy. “As if—as if you didn’t care for anything.”
Madelene glanced at her half curiously. Was this mere childishness—or—were her fears for poor little Ella’s peace of mind already beginning to be realised? Was this the first taste of the weary pain—the sickness of heart which she herself had not yet grown innured to?
“And in her case it would be ever so much worse,” she said to herself, “if Philip does not really care for her. I at least have always been sure of Bernard, though even thus, heaven knows it has been hard to bear!”
Her heart ached for the young creature looking up at her with troubled eyes. But she must ignore what she still hoped was but superficial.
“Everybody knows that kind of feeling at times, I suppose,” she said placidly. “It generally is a sort of reaction. We have had a little more excitement than usual, you see, and you enjoyed yourself very much at Cheynesacre.”
“I never was so happy in my life,” Ella replied impulsively.
“I am glad you liked it. Philip is certainly a model host—he is a favourite everywhere, and deservedly, for he is very kind-hearted. And it says a good deal for him that his being such a favourite—especially with women—has not quite spoilt him.”
Ella looked up sharply.