But what she had done then was impossible now. He seemed so utterly
strange, so different from the man whom she thought she had grown to
understand. She was all at sea. She was desperately tired, her head
aching and confused with the terrible problems of the future. She dared
not think any more. She only wanted to lie in his arms and sob her
heart out against his. She was starving for the touch of his hands,
suffering horribly.
She slid down on to her knees, burying her face in the couch.
"Oh, God! Give me his love!" she kept whispering in agonised entreaty,
until the recollection of the night, months before, when in the same
posture she had prayed that God's curse might fall on him, sent a
shudder through her.
"I didn't mean if," she moaned. "Oh, clear God! I didn't mean it. I
didn't know.... Take it back. I didn't mean it."
She choked down the sobs that rose, pressing her face closer into the
silken coverings.
There was silence in the next room except for the striking of a match
that came with monotonous regularity. And always the peculiar scent of
his tobacco drifting in through the heavy curtains, forcing a hundred
recollections with the association of its perfume. Why didn't he come
to her? Did he know how he was torturing her? Was he so utterly
indifferent that he did not care what she suffered? Did he even think
of her, to wonder if she suffered or not? The fear of the future rushed
on her again with overwhelming force. The uncertainty was killing her.
She raised her head and looked at the travelling clock beside the
reading-lamp. It was an hour since Gaston had left him. Another hour of
waiting would drive her mad. She must know what he was going to do. She
could bear anything but this suspense. She had reached the limit of her
endurance. She struggled to her feet, drawing the thin wrap closer
around her. But even then she stood irresolute, dreading the fulfilling
of her fears; she had not the courage voluntarily to precipitate her
fate. She clung to her fool's paradise. Her eyes were fixed on the
clock, watching the hands drag slowly round the dial. A quarter of an
hour crept past. It seemed the quarter of a lifetime, and Diana brushed
her hand across her eyes to clear away the dazzling reflection of the
staring white china face with its long black minute hand. No sound of
any kind came now from the other room. The silence was driving her
frantic. She was desperate; she must know, nothing could be worse than
the agony she was enduring.