Then the smile came back to her lips, and she rose. It didn't matter;
nothing mattered but the great, primary fact that in--how many
hours?--four, she would see him. Let his mood be what it
would--fatherly, aloof, impish--he would be himself, she would see him,
and she loved him.
The Duchess of Wight had written to her, and going to her dressing-table
she re-read the note.
It was short, simply telling her that her mother had told of her
arrival, and asking her to dine at 8.30 in Charles Street. Not she, she
would not lose one second of the glorious anticipations that were hers
now. She would sit here close to her fire and gloat over her joy.
Sitting down, she took a sheet of paper and began to write----
"Dear Duchess,--Thanks so much for asking me to dine, but----"
She broke off and sat staring at the wall. To-morrow at this time what
would have become of her? The world would have run its course, come to
its end, and yet she would be still alive! Could she bear it?
She would have told her story; made these people understand that she
could never be one of them; broken (for the time) Theo's young heart,
and been reviled and cast out by Joyselle.
And she would have to return here, alone, broken with grief, hopeless.
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