Her pride took fire. Certainly
until he could receive letters and read them himself, she must wait.
Cheiron would, of course, inform her when that time came. A doubt of
John Derringham's loyalty to her never even cast its shadow upon her
soul, nor a suspicion that he could doubt her either.
All these things were the frosts and rains of their winter, but the
springtime would come and the glorious sun and flowers.
She was growing accustomed to London and the life of continual bustle,
and was almost grateful for it all as it kept her from thinking.
Her stepfather and his wife mixed in a rising half-set of society where
many people who were not fools came, and a number who were, but to
Halcyone they all seemed a weariness. No one appeared to see anything
straightly, and they seemed to be taken up with pursuits that could not
divert or interest a cat. She saw quite a number of young men at dinners
and was taken to the theater and suppers at the fashionable restaurants,
and these entertainments she loathed. She was too desperately unhappy
underneath to get even youth's exhilaration out of them, and when she
had been in London for nearly three weeks and Cheiron was preparing to
return to his cottage, having delayed his departure much beyond his
ordinary time, she felt she could endure the martyrdom no more.
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