A perfectly incomprehensible and resistless rush of loneliness swept her to her feet; in a moment she was down on the floor again, on her silken knees, her arms around the dog, her head pressed tightly to his head.
“Oh,” she said, choking, “I must go to-morrow—I must—I must.… And here are the violets; … I will tie them to your collar.… Hold still!… He loves you; … but you shall not have them—do you hear?… No, no, … for I shall wear them, … for I like their odor; … and, anyway, … I am going away.”…
IV
The next day she began her pilgrimage; and His Highness went with her; and a maid from the British Isles.
She had telegraphed to the Sagamore Club for rooms, to make sure, but that was unnecessary, because there were at the moment only three members of the club at the lodge.
Now although she herself could scarcely be considered a member of the Sagamore Angling Club, she still controlled her husband’s shares in the concern, and she was duly and impressively welcomed by the steward. Two of the three members domiciled there came up to pay their respects when she alighted from the muddy buckboard sent to the railway to meet her; they were her husband’s old friends, Colonel Hyssop and Major Brent, white-haired, purple-faced, well-groomed gentlemen in the early fifties. The third member was out in the rain fishing somewhere down-stream.
“New man here, madam—a good fellow, but a bad rod—eh, Brent?”
“Bad rod,” repeated Major Brent, wagging his fat head. “Uses ferrules to a six-ounce rod. We splice—eh, Colonel?”
“Certainly,” said the Colonel.