Ideala had always
been careless about her health, and we expected some trouble with her
now, but she acquiesced in all our arrangements without a word. It was
easy to see, however, that her docility arose from indifference. The
one idea possessed her, and she cared for nothing else. Did he, or did
he not, mean it? was the question she asked herself, morning, noon, and
night, till at last she could bear it no longer. Anything was better
than suspense. She must write to him, she must know the truth one way
or the other.
I had stayed up in the blue drawing-room to read one night after the
rest of the party had gone to their rooms, but my mind wandered from
the book. Ideala had been very still that evening, and I could not help
thinking about her. Once or twice I had caught her looking at me
intently. It seemed as if she had something to say, but when I went to
speak to her she answered quite at random. I was much troubled about
her, and something happened presently which did not tend to set my mind
at rest. The room was large, and the fire, though bright, and one
shaded lamp standing on a low table, left the greater part of it in
shadow.
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