"But he'll find me out some day, Miss," said Susan doubtfully.
"How do you know there's going to be a some day? Perhaps you won't like him. If so, you'll part, and there's an end of it. The great thing, Susan, is not to worry yourself into a fright. If you're scared and nervous, you won't look nice. And if you don't look nice, he'll be far more disappointed than if you're not clever. Now run up to the hotel with this note."
She departed in good spirits, treading jauntily. But when she came back she was limp, hopeless, tearful. It has called for all my strategy to elude a scene. I'm so glad Georgette is here! She and Susan get on together like a house on fire. Georgette is all ears and sympathy for every word Susan says, though Susan might as well be talking Coptic five-sixths of the time. At this minute they are laying the table under the balcony, and Susan is in full flow with her tale of hopes and fears.
The gold is tarnishing in the sky, and a cold, bitter wind is blowing from the sea.
It has struck six. He will be just arriving at Madame's.
The Villa is sunnier and freer than the hotel by day. But it is eerie with the fall of night. I will have a fire and an extra lamp.
Oh that it were Monday morning, with it all over, and Ruddington gone! How can I be sure that I have mother-wit, and force, and pride enough to scrape through? What if the sight of him fans Tuesday's flame instead of quenching the embers? What if I do truly love him, after all? What if I break down while he is asking me for Susan?
This useless, restless, shameless pen of mine is my ruin. Why do I never learn? Why did I not burn this book, days ago, to ashes? Even as I have sat writing these so few lines, the truth has darted out of its hiding-place. I can cheat myself no more.
God has marked me down to receive through my heart the sharpest, most venomous arrow of His cruelty. I am the chosen vessel of His wrath. I love Ruddington; and he is close at hand, while the light is dying out of heaven, and I am so cold and lonely. He has sped over land and sea, on fire with love: and the love is not for me.
The last of the red is gone from the sky. Twelve hours before to-morrow's dawn. Twelve hours of sleepless darkness. Twelve hours of solitary vigil to prepare me for meeting him to-morrow in the merry sunlight, and for draining my cup of bitterness to its black dregs.
