Her eyes are dry and bright, her throat is parched, her forehead burns.
What will Carol think? Carol will be sorry, but not angry; Carol is always kind, considerate, forgiving. The dangerous fascination of imagination steals over her. Carol is at her side in a waking dream, but the scene is very different to the one she had contemplated. She fancies he is kneeling as once before by the same sofa, murmuring again those wild, impassioned words. She bends to grasp his hands and raise him from the grovelling adoration to her own level. They are just a man and woman—soul to soul, clay; ah! yes, of the earth earthly.
She breaks into a low laugh which ripples round the room, and seems to die away in something like a sob.
What is this rising tumult in her heart?
She cannot analyse her mood, it seems as if a certain knowledge has broken in like a flood of light upon her dim reason.
"Who can prevent me loving him, who can hold me back if I will it, if I choose?"
The door re-opens. Sarah enters with one of Mrs. Mounteagle's little scented notes upon a salver.
DEAREST ELEANOR,—If you are in, just toddle round to tea like a darling. I have some delicious toasted buns, and I want you to come and eat them. Don't put on gloves.
Your all impatient,
GIDDY.
It is intolerable sitting in alone, fuming over her wrongs and acting a drama with her imagination. Philip detests Giddy. She will pay him out and go.