She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. You said that it would bring trouble. To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. She was wearing a becoming tea-gown, and it was quite certain that Sir John would not be home for several hours at least. She got hysterical.
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