When it had gone, I felt somewhat as I've felt when near a man to whom
an anaesthetic is being given. The fumes of ether have an odd effect on
me. They turn me into a "don't care" sort of person without conscience
and without fear. No wonder some nations give soldiers a dash of ether
in their drink, when they have to go "over the top!" I could go, and
feel no sense of danger, even though my reason knew that it existed.
So it was while I waited for the messenger from our mean little hotel
to come back from the magnificent Ritz. Would he suddenly dash my sinful
hopes by saying, "_Pas de reponse, Mademoiselle_"; or would he bring me
a letter from Father and Mother Beckett? If he brought such a letter,
would it invite me to call and be inspected, or would it suggest that I
kindly go to the devil?
I was tremendously keyed up; and yet--curiously I didn't care which of
these things happened. It was rather as if I were in a theatre, watching
an act of a play that might end in one of several ways, neither one of
which would really matter.
I read aloud to Brian. My voice sounded sweet and well modulated, I
thought; but quite like that of a stranger. I was reading some moving
details of a vast battle, which--ordinarily--would have stirred me to
the heart. But they made no impression on my brain. I forgot the words
as they left my lips. Dimly I wondered if there were a curse falling
upon me already: if I were doomed to lose all sense of grief or joy, as
the man in the old story lost his shadow when he sold it to Satan.
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