The night was very still. Once or twice the rush of a passing
train in the distance became audible; and the ceaseless, solemn,
inarticulate murmur of the night was broken by a nightingale that sang
out at intervals, divinely.
Ideala never thought of submitting; she simply lay there, waiting
without expecting. The night air overcame her more and more with a
sense of fatigue, but she could not sleep. She saw the darkness fade
and the dawn appear, and when at last the servants began to move in the
house she watched her opportunity and slipped in unobserved. She went
to one of the spare rooms, undressed, rang, and got into bed. When the
bell was answered she ordered a hot bath and hot coffee immediately.
The maid supposed she had slept there, and seemed surprised; but as her
mistress offered no explanation she could make no remark; and so the
matter ended.
But I do not think Ideala suffered much on that occasion. Her strong
young womanhood saved her somewhat--and there was a charm for her in
the beauty of the night and the novelty of her position, which a less
healthy organism would not have appreciated, had it been able to
discover it--at such a time.
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