Orme would be at home the next day
for dinner, and did she think he would like the venison with claret sauce
or jelly, roused Kate to the first consciousness of her surroundings.
Her father would return on the morrow: he would give to the dressing of
the venison such minute consideration as, in his opinion, every detail
affecting his comfort or convenience quite obviously merited. And if
it were not the venison it would be something else; if it were not the
housekeeper it would be Mr. Orme, charged with the results of a conference
with his agent, a committee-meeting at his club, or any of the other
incidents which, by happening to himself, became events. Kate found herself
caught in the inexorable continuity of life, found herself gazing over a
scene of ruin lit up by the punctual recurrence of habit as nature's calm
stare lights the morrow of a whirlwind.
Life was going on, then, and dragging her at its wheels. She could
neither check its rush nor wrench loose from it and drop out--oh, how
blessedly--into darkness and cessation.
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