She sat for a while in the boudoir, thinking that Knight might come soon,
before she began to undress. There was a dying glow of coal and logs in
the fireplace, but staring into the rosy mass brought no inspiration. She
could not concentrate her thoughts on the scene which must presently be
enacted; they would go straggling wearily to other scenes already acted,
even as far back as that hour at the Savoy when a young man who looked to
her like the hero of a novel begged to sit at her table.
He still seemed as much as ever like the hero of a novel in which he had
splendidly made her the heroine; but it was not a pleasant chapter she
had to read now. It reminded her too intensely of the mystery surrounding
the hero, and forced her to realize that stories of real life have not
always happy endings.
"But ours must!" she said to herself, springing up, unable to rest.
"Nothing can break our love; and while we have that we have everything!"
She could no longer sit still, and going into her bedroom she peeped
through the door into Knight's room beyond. It was dark, as she expected
to find it; for she had been almost sure that she would have heard him if
he had entered the vestibule.
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