Sorell laughed again. Then rising to take his leave, he stooped over her.
‘Make me happy—by undoing that stroke of yours—at Boar’s Hill!’
Connie raised herself, and looked at him steadily.
Then gravely and decisively she shook her head.
‘Not at all! I shall keep an eye on it!—so must you!’
Then, suddenly, she smiled—the softest, most radiant smile, as though some hope within, far within, looked out. It was gone in a moment, and Sorell went his way; but as one who had been the spectator of an event.
After his departure Connie sat on in the cold room, thinking about Sorell. She was devoted to him—he was the noblest, dearest person. She wished dreadfully to please him. But she wasn’t going to let him—
Well, what?
—to let him interfere with that passionate purpose which seemed to be beating in her, and through her, like a living thing, though as yet she had but vaguely defined it, even to herself.