The evening was dark and oppressive, with black clouds threatening thunder. Those hours passed very slowly.
Jean tried to read, but was unable. Then she went to the big salon and, seating herself at the grand piano, played snatches of Grand Opera. But she was too anxious, too impatient for midnight to come and end all the suspense.
Miss Oliver joined her, as usual, about ten o’clock for half an hour’s chat. But the presence of the governess irritated her, and she was glad when she retired. She wondered whether Enid had told her anything. The child’s chatter had, indeed, been extremely unfortunate.
Eleven o’clock!
She sat in her boudoir trying to occupy her mind by writing a letter, but she could not. She had to go through the terrible ordeal of seeing that man again.
At one moment she felt impelled to confess all to Bracondale, yet at the next she thought of his honour, and of the child. No, at all hazards, at all costs, even if it cost her her life, she must preserve her secret.
For wealth or for position she cared nothing—only for Bracondale’s love.
The little clock struck the quarter. It wanted fifteen minutes to midnight.
With knit brows she rose quickly. The whole household had now retired; all was silence, and she was alone. Outside Ralph was no doubt watching for the light in the little salon.