She was but
human, and she was intensely sensitive to unkindness. Her nerves
were beginning to give way under the strain. There were even times
when she felt a breakdown to be inevitable, and only the thought of
her step-mother's triumph warded it off. Once down, and she knew
she would be a slave, broken beyond redemption to the most pitiless
tyranny. And so, though her strength was worn threadbare through
perpetual strain, she clung to it still. If only--oh, if only--Guy
would write! If he should be ill--if he should fail her--she felt
that it would be the end of everything. For nothing else mattered.
She did not greatly wish to go to the Hunt Ball that year. She
felt utterly out of tune with all gaiety. But she could think of
no decent excuse for remaining away. And she was still buoying
herself up with the thought that Guy's silence could not last much
longer. She was bound to hear from him soon.
She went to the Ball, therefore, feeling tired and dispirited, and
looking quite _passee_, as her step-mother several times assured
her.
She had endured a long harangue upon jealousy that evening, which
vice Mrs. Ingleton declared she was allowing to embitter her whole
life, and she was weary to death of the subject and the penetrating
voice that had discoursed upon it. Once or twice she had been
stung into some biting rejoinder, but for the most part she had
borne the lecture in silence.
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