This morning I feel as if I could hardly bear it until Miss Sharp
arrives--I dressed early, ready to begin a new chapter although I have
not an idea in my head, and, as the time grows nearer, it is difficult
for me to remain still here in my chair.
Have I been too impossible?--Will she not turn up?--and if she does not,
what steps can I take to find her?--Maurice is at Deauville with the
rest, and I do not know Miss Sharp's home address--nor if she has a
telephone--probably not. My heart beats--I have every feeling of
excitement as stupid as a woman! I analyse it all now, how mental
emotion reacts on the physical--even the empty socket of my eye aches--I
could hardly control my voice when Burton began a conversation about my
orders for the day just now.
"You would not be wishin' for the company of your Aunt Emmeline, Sir
Nicholas"?--he asked me--.
"Of course not, Burton, you old fool--"
"You seem so much more restless, sir--lately--"
"I am restless--please leave me alone."
He coughed and retired.
Now I am listening again--it wants two minutes to the hour--she is never
late.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten--. It feels as
if the blood would burst the veins--I cannot write.
She came after all, only ten minutes beyond her usual time, but they
seemed an eternity when I heard the ring and Burton's slow step. I could
have bounded from my chair to open the door myself.--It was a telegram!
How this always happens when one is expecting anyone with desperate
anxiety--A telegram from Suzette.
"I shall return to-night, Mon Chou."
Her cabbage!--Bah! I never want to see her again--.
Miss Sharp must have entered when the door was opened for the telegram,
for I had begun to feel pretty low again when I heard her knock at the
door of the sitting-room.
She came in and up to my chair as usual--but she did not say her
accustomary cold good morning. I looked up--the horn spectacles were
over her eyes again, and the rest of her face was very pale--while there
was something haughty in the carriage of her small head, it seemed to
me. Her eternal pad and pencil were in her little thin, red hands.
"Good morning"--I said tentatively, she made a slight inclination as
much as to say--"I recognize you have spoken," then she waited for me to
continue.
I felt an egregious ass, I knew I was nervous as a bird, I could not
think of anything to say--I, Nicholas Thormonde, accustomed to any old
thing! nervous of a little secretary!