Among the things she meant to do this morning was the writing of
several letters to so-called friends, who had addressed her in the
wonted verbiage on the subject of her engagement. Five minutes
proved the task impossible. She tore up a futile attempt at
civility, and rose from the desk with all her nerves quivering.
"How well I understand," she said to herself, "why men swear!"
At eleven o'clock, unable to endure the house, she dressed for going
out, and drove to Mrs. Hannaford's.
Olga was not at home. Before going into her aunt's room, Irene spoke
with the nurse, who had no very comforting report to make; Mrs.
Hannaford could not sleep, had not closed her eyes for some
four-and-twenty hours; Dr. Derwent had looked in this morning, and
was to return later with another medical man. The patient longed for
her niece's visit; it might do good.
She stayed about an hour, and it was the most painful hour her life
had yet known. The first sight of Mrs. Hannaford's face told her how
serious this illness was becoming; eyes unnaturally wide, lips which
had gone so thin, head constantly moving from side to side as it lay
back on the cushion of the sofa, were indications of suffering which
made Irene's heart ache. In a faint, unsteady, lamenting voice, the
poor woman talked ceaselessly; now of the wrong that was being done
her, now of her miseries in married life, now again of her present
pain.
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