I chatted a moment with Senator Stacy's wife, and told her that her second child was a picture--(it is--of ugliness). I felt it a duty to say this, however, as the only thing false about it was the impression it conveyed to her--and the Senator's good will is quite necessary to Edgar's plans.
Then I went to the Talbots', and wound up with the Farringtons' reception.
And now, thank heaven, I am going to bed, and Edgar will be at home in the morning. I shall go nowhere to-morrow night, for he will be glad to have me at home--unless he should treat me coldly. I won't even _think_ of _that_.
_February 16, 18--._ To-day Edgar came into the library after dinner--I dined alone, and was taking my coffee there, cosily, by the fire. He stood in the door a moment, looking at me, before he entered the room. The first thing he said was:
"Good Heavens! What should not a woman like you be able to accomplish--"
This, after having been out of town _three days_!
He said it as though wholly engrossed with that one thought--that my beauty and charm are valuable to him as a means by which to accomplish, instead of being things dear to him for their own sake, because they belong to him.
I daresay I am foolishly sensitive about this. I know he adores me. He proved the injustice of my thought a moment later--while the impression was yet in my mind. He hurried across the room and threw himself on his knees by my chair. I had not risen to meet him, as my heart and first impulse had prompted, because his greeting had repelled me, but I felt humiliated and reproached myself for my pettiness afterwards.
I was thankful that he was so engrossed with seeing me again as not to notice it. He threw himself on his knees by me and kissed my hands.
He looks tired and worn. It impressed me for the first time as he knelt there with his arms about my waist. He said, in a tone that brought the tears to my eyes:
"I have thought of you almost constantly, dear, since I have been away from you."
He said it wistfully. I knew his mind had been on the scene we had, here, in this room where I am writing, before he left.
There was a sort of dreary surrender in his tone; but every inflection of his voice, and every glance, conveyed passionate love for me. I should have felt no reproach or misgiving had it been otherwise, but his apparent giving up, and hopelessness, touched me.