No one had ever seen, no one again would ever see, that face of high
disdainful beauty, pain-stricken on the fair brow, which Irene for a
moment turned upon him. As he withdrew, the smile that lurked behind
her scorn glimmered forth for an instant, and passed in the falling
of a tear.
She went to her room, and lay down. The sleep she had not dared to
hope for fell upon her whilst she was trying to set her thoughts in
order. She slept until eight o'clock; her headache was gone.
Neither with her father, nor with Olga, did she speak of what had
passed.
Before going to bed, she packed carefully a large dress-basket and a
travelling-bag, which a servant brought down for her from the
box-room. Again she slept, but only for an hour or two, and at seven
in the morning she rose.
CHAPTER XXVIII
The breakfast hour was nine o'clock. Dr. Derwent, as usual, came
down a few minutes before, and turned over the letters lying for him
on the table. Among them he found an envelope addressed in a hand
which looked very much like Irene's; it had not come by post. As he
was reading the note it contained, Eustace and Olga Hannaford
entered together, talking. He bade them good-morning, and all sat
down to table.
"Irene's late," said Eustace presently, glancing at the clock.
The Doctor looked at him with an odd smile.
"She left Victoria ten minutes ago," he said, "by the Calais-boat
express.
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