you had your child when you were asleep. Then about August last you awoke, you sleeping beauty."
That was intentional; it was flattering with a purpose. All London rang with certain rumours, and though, as a general rule, Lady Heron paid as little heed to rumours as Lucia had once professed to her husband that she paid, yet the coincidence of such rumours with an undoubted change in Lucia could not but interest her. And, looking up, she saw that Lucia was now attending to what she said with a closer interest than she had shown even in the matter of the tribute-money.
"I awoke in August, do you say?" she asked. "How interesting! I hate talking about myself, but I wonder why you think that? How did I become different? And what made the difference? what wakened me?"
Madge did not reply at once.
"I have no idea," she said at length. "That was what I wanted to ask you. Did I conjecture? Oh, certainly I conjectured. I thought that no doubt maternity had awakened you."
Lucia could not help laughing. The idea genuinely amused her; it was amusing also that anyone as shrewd as she knew Madge to be should be so hopelessly astray. And her amusement rather put her off her guard, though, indeed, with Madge she had no cause to keep her point up.
"Ah, guess again," she said. "You are not even warm."
"You admit the awakening, then?" asked Madge.
Lucia hesitated. But she saw that she had already given that away. Her answer had admitted the awakening. But there was no harm done; indeed, she had often been on the point of telling Madge all about it, and why she had not done so she scarcely knew. It must be supposed that it was some remnant of self-respect that had deterred her.
"Yes, I admit the awakening," she answered. "I did awake. And I found I had awoke from a nightmare. Yes, a nightmare. Being awake, I knew it was that. And the nightmare goes on now."
She had not meant to say quite as much, but her tongue had obeyed not her judgment, but an instinct that lay below and beyond it. As far as judgment and quiet thinking went, she was without fear and quite without scruple. Only something very deep within her was afraid. It was that secret fear that made her say what she had said.
