Fright stiffened the fixed smile on her lips. Her plight paralysed her for a moment.
"Yes, I'll go," he answered, smiling. "I usually am going somewhere—most of the time."
He picked up hat, gloves, and crop, looked down at her, came and stood at the table, resting one hand on the edge.
"We're pretty young yet, Geraldine. … I never saw a girl I cared for as I might have cared for you. It's true, no matter what I have done, or may do. … But you're quite right, a man of that sort isn't to be considered"—he laughed and pulled on one glove—"only—I knew as soon as I saw you that it was to be you or—everybody. First, it was anybody; then it was you—now it's everybody. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," she managed to say. The dizzy waves swayed her; she rested her cheeks between both hands and, leaning there heavily, closed her eyes to fight against it. She had been seated on the side of a lounge; and now, feeling blindly behind her, she moved the cushions aside, turned and dropped among them, burying her blazing face. Over her the scorching vertigo swept, subsided, rose, and swept again. Oh, the horror of it!—the shame, the agonised surprise. What was this dreadful thing that, for the second time, she had unwittingly done? And this time it was so much more terrible. How could such an accident have happened to her? How could she face her own soul in the disgrace of it?
Fear, loathing, frightened incredulity that this could really be herself, stiffened her body and clinched her hands under her parted lips. On them her hot breath fell irregularly.
Rigid, motionless, she lay, breathing faster and more feverishly. Tears came after a long while, and with them relaxation and lassitude. She felt that the dreadful thing which had seized and held her was letting go its hold, was freeing her body and mind; and as it slowly released her and passed on its terrible silent way, she awoke and sat up with a frightened cry—to find herself lying on her own bed in utter darkness.
A moment later her bedroom door opened without a sound and the light from the hall streamed over Kathleen's bare shoulders and braided hair.
"Geraldine?"
The girl scarcely recognised Kathleen's altered voice. She lay listening, silent, motionless, staring at the white figure.
"Dearest, I thought you called me. May I come in?"
"I am not well."
But Kathleen entered and stood beside the bed, looking down at her in the dim light.
"Dearest," she began tremulously, "Duane told me you had a headache and had gone to your room to lie down, so I didn't disturb you——"
"Duane," faltered the girl, "is he here? What did he say?"
"He was in the library before dinner when I came in, and he warned me not to waken you. Do you know what time it is?"
"No."
"It is after midnight. … If you feel ill enough to lie here, you ought to be undressed. May I help you?"
There was no answer. For a moment Kathleen stood looking down at the girl in silence; then a sudden shivering seized her; she strove to control it, but her knees seemed to give way under it and she dropped down beside the bed, throwing both arms around Geraldine's neck.
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