It wasn't fair that one must become unsightly,
offensive to the eye, in order to bring life into the world. Some women
seemed proud to be like that. How was that possible? She would never
dare to show herself in the days coming.
She finished dressing and went downstairs. It was nearly eight, and
Fiorsen had not come in. When the gong was struck, she turned from the
window with a sigh, and went in to dinner. That sigh had been relief.
She ate her dinner with the two pups beside her, sent them off, and
sat down at her piano. She played Chopin--studies, waltzes, mazurkas,
preludes, a polonaise or two. And Betty, who had a weakness for that
composer, sat on a chair by the door which partitioned off the back
premises, having opened it a little. She wished she could go and take a
peep at her "pretty" in her white frock, with the candle-flames on each
side, and those lovely lilies in the vase close by, smelling beautiful.
And one of the maids coming too near, she shooed her angrily away.
It grew late. The tray had been brought up; the maids had gone to bed.
Gyp had long stopped playing, had turned out, ready to go up, and, by
the French window, stood gazing out into the dark. How warm it was--warm
enough to draw forth the scent of the jessamine along the garden wall!
Not a star. There always seemed so few stars in London. A sound made her
swing round.
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