How many years ago was it since Felix had attended one of Mary Sherwood’s little parties? Not more than three or four; she remembered how he used to hear her voice in its lightest speaking, how soon he became aware whenever she changed her position; how many times she had raised her eyes to meet his with their fixed, intense gaze; how his eyes would glitter and what a set look would stiffen his lips. And oh, how she had teased him in those days by refusing his eagerly proffered attentions and accepting Gus Hammerton in the matter-of-fact fashion in which he had suggested himself as ever at her service! In all the years she could remember these two, Gus, helpful and friendly, not in the least lover-like (she could as easily imagine the bell on the old Academy a lover), and Felix, poor Felix,—he would always be “poor Felix” now,—with his burning jealousy and intrusive affection.
Was he asleep now, or awake and in pain? Was he lying alone thinking of what he might have been but for his own undisciplined eagerness, not daring to look into the future nights and days, that would be like these, only more helpless, more terrible?
The talk and laughter ran on, her cheeks were hot, her head weary; she longed for a cool pillow and a dark chamber; some one was speaking, she lifted her eyes to reply.
“Miss Tessa, my mother misses you every hour.”
“I am very sorry. There is room on my sofa, will you sit down?”
“No. I was too hasty in our last conversation,” bending so low that his breath touched her hair, “I come to ask you to reconsider; will you?”
“Do you want such an answer as that would be?”
“That is what I do want; then you will be sure, so sure that you will never change—”
“I am not changeable.”
“I think you are; in six months I will come to you again, when shall it be?”