His terrible earnestness, his overpowering
agitation, his abrupt violence--all these evidences of a passion that
was a mystery to himself--simply puzzled her. "I'm sure I didn't wish to
hurt his feelings" (such was the form that her reflections took, in her
present penitent frame of mind); "but why did he provoke me? It is a
shame to tell me that I love some other man--when there is no other man.
I declare I begin to hate the men, if they are all like Mr. Moody. I
wonder whether he will forgive me when he sees me again? I'm sure I'm
willing to forget and forgive on my side--especially if he won't insist
on my being fond of him because he is fond of me. Oh, dear! I wish he
would come back and shake hands. It's enough to try the patience of a
saint to be treated in this way. I wish I was ugly! The ugly ones have
a quiet time of it--the men let them be. Mr. Moody! Mr. Moody!" She went
out to the landing and called to him softly. There was no answer. He was
no longer in the house. She stood still for a moment in silent vexation.
"I'll go to Tommie!" she decided. "I'm sure he's the more agreeable
company of the two. And--oh, good gracious! there's Mr. Hardyman waiting
to give me my instructions! How do I look, I wonder?"
She consulted the glass once more--gave one or two corrective touches to
her hair and her cap--and hastened into the boudoir.
CHAPTER VI.
FOR a quarter of an hour the drawing-room remained empty. At the end of
that time the council in the boudoir broke up.
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