She had been beaten by
Aunt Rose, and even Charles called her adorable. She did not want
Francis Sales; he was rather stupid, and as a legitimate lover he
would be dull, duller than Charles, who at least knew how to say
things; but something coloured and exciting and dramatic had been
ravished from her--by Aunt Rose. That was the sting, and she was
humiliated, though she would not own it. She had been good enough for
an episode, but her charm had not endured.
Her little, rather inhuman teeth ground against each other. But she
had been clever, she had carried it off well; she had not given a
sign, and she determined to be equally clever with Aunt Rose. Some day
she would refer lightly to her folly and laugh at the susceptibility
of Francis Sales. It would hurt Aunt Rose to have her faithful lover
disparaged! But, ah! if only she and Aunt Rose were friends, what a
conspiracy they could enjoy together! They had both suffered, they
might both laugh. How they might play into each other's hands with
Francis Sales for the bewildered ball! It would be the finest sport in
the world; but they were not friends, and it was impossible to imagine
Aunt Rose at that game. No, she was alone in the world, and as she
felt the first drop of rain on her face she became aware of the aching
of her heart.
She stood for a moment on the bridge. A grey mist was being driven up
the river, blotting out the gorge and the trees. A gull, shrieking
dismally, cleaved the greyness with a white flash.
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