Bathurst endured in silence for a few moments; then, "Oh, what on earth
are you looking for?" he said with sleepy irritation. "I wish you'd go."
"I want your brandy flask," she said, and her words came clipped and
sharp. "Where is it?"
"On the dressing-table," he said. "What have you been doing to the
child?"
"I've given her as much as she can stand," his wife retorted grimly. "But
you leave her to me! I'll manage her."
She departed with a haste that seemed to denote a certain anxiety
notwithstanding her words.
She left the door ajar, and the man turned again on his pillow and
listened uneasily. He was afraid Lydia had gone too far.
For a space he heard nothing. Then came the splashing of water, and again
that piteous, gasping cry. He caught the sound of his wife's voice, but
what she said he could not hear. Then there were movements, and Dinah
spoke in broken supplication that went into hysterical sobbing. Finally
he heard his wife come out of the room and close the door behind her.
She came back again with the brandy flask. "She's had a lesson," she
observed, "that I rather fancy she'll never forget as long as she lives."
"Then I hope you're satisfied," said Bathurst, and turned upon his side.
Yes, Dinah had had a lesson. She had passed through a sevenfold furnace
that had melted the frozen fountain of her tears till it seemed that
their flow would never be stayed again.
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