Marian made no comment, but marveled at the quixotry of man.
CHAPTER X
Maddison being engaged to lunch and tea on the following Sunday—the first of those on which he expected his suppers to commence again—Marian was left to herself the whole day, spending it in lounging discontent.
The gilt was wearing off the prize she had won, and each day she grew more impatient for change. It was not in her to wish that she were otherwise gifted and that she could rest content with present conditions. She desired more than she possessed, spent no effort in endeavoring to drill herself into being satisfied with what she had, but kicked against the pricks.
Of Maddison’s friends she had met only Mortimer and West. She was to all intents alone in London with Maddison.
She was free to act, eager to do so, but as yet she had found no outlet for her energy or ambition. Also, she was not a little lonely; whenever, as on this day, Maddison was not with her, she was thrown back on herself. At times even, it seemed to her as if she had only freed herself from the active and pressing annoyances of the past, and that in reality she was no more free now than then. She had but flown from one cage to another, and was again beating her wings against the bars in angry endeavor to escape for a stronger and farther flight.
After luncheon she sat down before the fire, trying to read a volume of Rossetti that Maddison had given her. The rhyme jingled through her head but made no impression, and conveyed neither sense nor beauty. Throwing the book aside on the floor, she lighted a cigarette and lay back dreamily in the soft, deep chair. The cigarette finished, she closed her eyes and soon fell asleep.
She awoke with a start and a shudder; the fire was nearly out, the room was chilly, the afternoon was quickly closing in. She shivered, wondering what sound it was that had aroused her. The maid came in, turning on the electric light as she entered, followed by a tall, elegantly-dressed woman.
“Mrs. Harding,” the maid announced.