A minute later, and he is in the dining-room, and I am sitting in my chamber alone.
CHAPTER VIII.
No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness of thy sharp envy."
It is a week since mother, sorely against her will, drove her fat grey ponies over to The Towers, and left cards for Mr. and Mrs. Vasher. For a week we have gone out every afternoon immediately after dinner, lest in the very plenitude of audacity she should elect to return the visit. We might have spared ourselves the trouble, however, for her chariot wheels have not turned in at our gates, and—somewhat to my surprise, I confess—I come to the conclusion that for once in her life her haughty spirit is abashed.
I am going to my pretty woodland this afternoon, alone as usual. Mother is in the village, Dolly invisible, and I am hunting for a basket to bring back my flowers in. Suddenly I bethink me of the one that contains mother's wools, and I cross the hall and enter the drawing-room to fetch it. What a noise those tiresome boys are making! I wish papa was not quite so conspicuous by his absence. It is no use to box their ears, I say to myself with a sigh: they are altogether past that. The wools have got entangled round the handle of the basket, and——— What is that noise in the distance? surely a bell rang? The door opens almost instantly, and Simpkins announces "Mrs. Vasher."
The room is a long one, and as she comes stepping across the space that lies between us I stand still, with my face turned toward her. When she is quite close to me she holds out her hand. I do not stir, but stand looking from her false face to her false hand, from her false hand back again to her face.
