But Lloyd might at least have understood that in
spite of her freedom the years of delay had sometimes been a little
hard for her; that it was cruel that Frederick should live, and live,
and live, putting off the moment when she should be like--other
people; like that complacent Mrs. King, even; (oh, how she detested
the woman!) But Lloyd had shown no spark of sympathy or understanding;
instead he had made a horrid joke.... Suddenly her eyes, sweet and
kind and shallow as an animal's, clouded with pain, and she burst out
crying--but only for one convulsive moment. She could not cry out here
in the garden. She wished she could get into the house, but she was
sure that her eyes were red, and the servants might notice them. She
would have to wait a while. Then she shivered, for a sharp wind blew
from across the hills where in the hollows the snow still lingered in
grimy drifts, icy on the edges, and crumbling and settling and sinking
away with every day of pale sunshine. The faint fragrance of wind-
beaten daffodils reached her, and she saw two crocuses, long gold
bubbles, over in the grass. She put the back of her hand against her
cheek--it was hot still; she must wait a little longer. Her chilly
discomfort made her angry at Lloyd, as well as hurt.... It was nearly
half an hour before she felt sure that her eyes would not betray her
and she could go into the house.
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