A third
attempt showed her that it was useless to force herself any longer, and
with a gesture and look of irritation she once more laid the volume upon
the table at her side.
During a few minutes she sat motionless in her chair, her elbow leaning
on the carved arm-piece, her chin supported upon the back of her
half-closed hand, of which the heavy, perfect fingers were turned
inwards, drooping in classic curves towards the lace about her throat.
Her strangely mismatched eyes stared vacantly towards an imaginary
horizon, not bounded by banks of flowers, nor obscured by the fantastic
foliage of exotic trees.
Presently she held up her head, her white hand dropped upon her knee,
she hesitated an instant, and then rose to her feet, swiftly, as though
she had made a resolution and was about to act upon it. She made a step
forward, and then paused again, while a half-scornful smile passed like
a shadow over her face. Very slowly she began to pace the marble floor,
up and down in the open space before her chair, turning and turning
again, the soft folds of her white gown following her across the smooth
pavement with a gentle, sweeping sound, such as the breeze makes among
flowers in spring.
"Is it he?" she asked aloud in a voice ringing with the joy and the
fear of a passion that has waited long and is at last approaching the
fulfilment of satisfaction.
No answer came to her from among the thick foliage nor in the scented
breath of the violets and the lilies.
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