ss space. Even if she called him and he came to her, she
could not reach him. Even if he stood at her side, the immeasurable
distance between them would not lessen.

When the morning came, she dressed herself in her prettiest gown, a
violet cloth, with ruffles of old lace at the throat and wrists; but
this dress, of which she had been so proud in Dinwiddie that she had
saved it for months in order to have it fresh for New York, appeared
somehow to have lost its charm and distinction, and she knew that last
evening had not only destroyed her happiness, but had robbed her of her
confidence in the taste and the workmanship of Miss Willy. Knowledge,
she saw now, had shattered the little beliefs of life as well as the
large ones.

Oliver liked to breakfast in his dressing-gown, fresh from his bath and
eager for the papers, so when he came hurriedly into the sitting-room,
the shining tray was already awaiting him, and she sat pouring his
coffee in a band of sunlight beside the table. This sunlight, so
merciful to the violet gown, shone pitilessly on the darkened hollows
which the night had left under her eyes, and on the little lines which
had gathered around her bravely smiling mouth.

"It was a wonderful success, all the papers say so, Oliver," she said,
when he had seated himself at the other end of the table and taken the
coffee from her hand, which shook in spite of her effort.

"Yes, it went off well, there's no doubt of it," he answered cheerfully,
so cheerfully that for a minute a blind hope shot trembling through her
mind. Could it all have been a dream? Was there some dreadful mistake?
Would she presently discover that she had imagined that night of useless
agony through which she had passed?

"The audience was so sympathetic. I saw a number of women crying in the
last act when the heroine comes back to her old home."

"It caught them. I thought it would. It's the kind of thing they like."

He opened a paper as he spoke, and seeing that he wanted to read the
criticisms, she broke his eggs for him, and then turning to her own
breakfast tried in vain to swallow the piece of toast which she had
buttered. But it was useless. She could not eat; she could not even
drink her coffee, which had stood so long that it had grown tepid. A
feeling of spiritual nausea, beside which all physical sensations were
as trivial and meaningless as the stinging of wasps, pervaded her soul
and body, and choked her, like unshed tears,