as beaming as though she had herself
'settled' Althea. She richly embroidered the themes, now so remote, that
had once occupied poor Althea's imagination--house-parties at Merriston;
hostess-ship on a large scale in London; Gerald's seat in Parliament
taken as a matter-of-course. Althea, feeling the intolerable irony, had
attempted vague qualifications; Gerald did not care for politics; she
herself preferred a quieter life; they probably could not afford a town
house. But to such disclaimers Miss Robinson opposed the brightness of
her faith in her friend's capacities. 'Ah, my dear, it's your very
reticence, your very quietness, that will tell. Once settled--I've
always felt it of you--you will make your place--and your place can only
be a big one. My only regret is that you won't get your wedding-dress in
Paris--oh yes, I know that they have immensely improved over here; but,
for cut and _cachet_, Paris is still the only place.'

This had all been tormenting, and Miss Buckston's presence at lunch had
been something of a refuge--Miss Buckston, far more interested in her
Bach choir practice than in Althea's plans, and lending but a
preoccupied attention to Miss Robinson's matrimonial talk. Miss
Buckston, at a glance, had dismissed Miss Robinson as frothy and
shallow. They were both gone now, thank goodness. Lady Blair would not
descend upon her till next morning, and Sally and Mrs. Peel were not due
in London until the end of the week. Althea sat, her head leaning back,
her eyes closed, and wondered whether Gerald would come and see her. He
had parted from her at the station, and the memory of his face,
courteous, gentle, yet so unseeing, made her feel like weeping
piteously. She spent the afternoon in the chair, her eyes closed and an
electric excitement of expectancy tingling through her, and Gerald did
not come. He did not come that evening, and the evening passed like a
phantasmagoria--the dinner in the sober little dining-room, Miss
Robinson, richly dressed, opposite her; and the hours in her
drawing-room afterwards, she and Miss Robinson on either side of the
fire, quietly conversing. And next morning there was no word from him.
It was then, as she lay in bed and felt the tears, though she did not
sob, roll down over her cheeks upon the pillow, that sudden strength
came with sudden revolt. A revulsion against her suffering and the cause
of it went through her, and she seemed to shake off a torpor, an
obsession, and