By the light of
what had happened it seemed now to her perfectly monstrous that she
could ever have consented to marry him. It angered her when she thought
of it--but her anger was directed more against herself than against
Dorrimore.
"I suppose I ought to go back to Mr. Vane. He'll be waiting anxiously to
know how I've fared, but no--I'll go to Twitenham first."
She sat for some time watching the sunset. She wove fanciful dreams in
which the pallid face and large gleaming eyes of the young poet were
strangely involved. With what courtly grace and reverence he had kissed
her hand! Vane was a gentleman by nature; Dorrimore merely called
himself one and what was more boasted of it.
But what did it matter to her? Vane had done her a service and it was
only right she should repay him in some sort. This was how she tried to
sum up the position. Whether Mr. Gay befriended him or not, their
acquaintance would have to cease. He was penniless and so was she. If
she confessed as much as this to him he would be embarrassed and
distressed because he could not help her.
"I dursn't tell him," she sighed. "I'll have to do something for myself.
Oh, if I could only earn some money by singing! I would love it. Not in
the streets though. No, I could never do that again. Never!"
She clasped her hands tightly and her face became sad. Then her thoughts
went back to Vane and she pictured him in his lonely garret perhaps
dreaming of the glorious future awaiting him if his tragedy was a
success, or perhaps he was dejected.
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