* * * * * Lord Bracondale had passed what he termed a dog's day. He had gone
racing, and there had met, and been bitterly reproached by, Esclarmonde
de Chartres for his neglect.
Qu'est-ce qu'il a eu pour toute une semaine?
He had important business in England, he said, and was going off at
once; but she would find the bracelet she had wished for waiting for her
at her apartment, and so they parted friends.
He felt utterly revolted with all that part of his life.
He wanted nothing in the world but Theodora. Theodora to worship and
cherish and hold for his own. And each hour that came made all else seem
more empty and unmeaning.
Just before dinner he went into the widow's sitting-room. She was
alone, Marie had said in the passage--resting, she thought, but madame
would certainly see milord. She had given orders for him to be admitted
should he come.
"Now sit down near me, beau jeune homme," Mrs. McBride commanded from
the depths of her sofa, where she was reclining, arrayed in exquisite
billows of chiffon and lace. "I have been expecting you. It is not
because I have been indulging in a little sentiment myself that my eyes
are glued shut--you have a great deal to confess--and I hope we have not
done too much harm between us."
Hector wanted sympathy, and there was something in the widow's
directness which he felt would soothe him. He knew her good heart. He
could speak freely to her, too, without being troubled by an
over-delicacy of mauvaise honte, as he would have been with an
Englishwoman. It would not have seemed sacrilege to the widow to discuss
with him--who was a friend--the finest and most tender sentiments of her
own, or any one else's, heart. He drew up a bergère and kissed her
hand.
"I have been behaving like a damned scoundrel," he said.
"My gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. McBride, with a violent jerk into a
sitting position. "You don't say--"
Then, for the first time for many years, a deep scarlet blush overspread
Hector's face, even up to his forehead--as he realized how she had read
his speech--how most people of the world would have read it. He got up
from his chair and walked to the window.
"Oh, good God!" he said, "I don't mean that."
The widow fell back into her pillows with a sigh of relief.
"I mean I have deliberately tried to make her unhappy, and I have
succeeded--and myself, too."
"That is not so bad then," and she settled a cushion. "Because
unhappiness is only a thing for a time. You are crazy for the moon, and
you can't get it, and you grieve and curse for a little, and then a new
moon arises. What else?"