Part 18 (2/2)
”I think my life will be better, brighter, n.o.bler, for the knowledge of such unselfish friends.h.i.+p. I can be but a poor friend to you, I am neither influential nor particularly attractive. Only a very simple little woman living very much in herself.”
”Mr. Roche is a good deal away, isn't he?”
”Yes, especially in the day time. I am very lonely sometimes. But how dark it is growing. Shall I ring for a light?”
”No,” with an imploring gesture, ”this is the hour to dream, and to see more clearly into other natures, to reveal secrets that cannot be left unknown for ever.”
He grasps her hands, and kneeling beside her buries his head in the folds of her long black sleeves.
”Oh! love--my love!” he gasps.
CHAPTER X.
FALSER THAN ALL FANCY FATHOMS.
”What are you going to do to-day?” asks Philip, kissing Eleanor before he leaves.
”I must run up to town to have my dress fitted,” she replies.
”What, more new frocks?”
”Only a very simple evening rag, dear,” speaking nervously. ”I am rather anxious about it, because it is the first I have had since my trousseau without Giddy's supervision. She always designs them, and does the talking.”
”And pockets the commission,” said Philip drily. ”Do not regret that lost acquaintance, little one. If Mrs. Mounteagle opened your eyes, don't you allow her to shut them again.”
”You will lose your train if you stand talking.”
Philip drives away down the hill, and Eleanor thinks regretfully of the pleasant times she used to spend chatting with Giddy.
Now she must go to town alone. Eleanor is quite weary of her own society by the time she arrives at Madame Faustine's in Bond Street.
She wonders if Carol received the little note she penned in such trepidation yesterday, imploring him to spare her the pa.s.sionate scenes in which he indulged the previous evening. She asked him in the most pathetic terms never to cross her path in life again, because she was only a weak little woman, and ended by saying she would be at 19, Bond Street, the next morning, and hoped not to run across that horrid Mrs.
Mounteagle.
As she is bowed out by an elegant maiden in black satin, a hand is laid on her arm, a sense of exhilaration possesses her, while Mr. Quinton's melodious voice whispers ”Eleanor” in her ear.
”I asked you not to,” she says feebly, ill concealing her pleasurable surprise.
”But you laid temptation in my way, and it was strong.” he answers.
She recalls his pa.s.sionate words breathed in the firelight, the words that held her paralysed, and seemed in a single syllable to divorce her from her husband.
”What are we going to do?” asks Carol.
”_We_! I must return to Lyndhurst and boredom. An old lady at Twickenham Park has asked me to tea this afternoon, and I have to interview a kitchen-maid at half-past two.”
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