Good night!
Another week or fortnight!--five weeks, or nearly, altogether. Doris was
sorely wounded. She went to look at herself in the mirror over the
chimney-piece. Was she not thin and haggard for want of rest and
holiday? Would not the summer weather be all done by the time Arthur
graciously condescended to come back to her? Were there not dark lines
under her eyes, and was she not feeling a limp and wretched creature,
unfit for any exertion? What was wrong with her? She hated her
drawing--she hated everything. And there was Arthur, proposing to go
yachting with Lady Dunstable!--while she might toil and moil--all
alone--in this August London! The tears rushed into her eyes. Her pride
only just saved her from a childish fit of crying.
But in the end resentment came to her aid, together with an angry and
redoubled curiosity as to what might be happening to Lady Dunstable's
precious son while Lady Dunstable was thus absorbed in robbing other
women of their husbands. Doris hurried her small household affairs, that
she might get off early to the studio; and as she put on her hat, her
fancy drew vindictive pictures of the scene which any day might
realise--the scene at Franick Castle, when Lady Dunstable, unsuspecting,
should open the letter which announced to her the advent of her
daughter-in-law, Elena, _nee_ Flink--or should gather the same unlovely
fact from a casual newspaper paragraph.
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