And he had despised
the gift and trampled it in the mire of unholy passion. She knew that it
was the love of her life. Never could any man be to her what he had been.
But what did it matter to Dermot? she thought bitterly. She had passed out
of his life. She had never been anything in it. He had been amused for an
idle moment by her simplicity, tool that she was. What he had done, had
risked for her, he would have done and risked for any other woman. Why did
he not write to her after his departure as he might have done? She almost
hoped that he would, so that she could answer him and pour out on him, if
only on paper, the scorn and disgust that filled her. But no; she would not
do that. The more dignified course would be to ignore his letter
altogether. If only she could hurt him she felt that she would accept any
other man's offer of marriage. But even then he wouldn't care. He had
always stood aside in Darjeeling and let others strive for her favour. And
she was put to the test, for first Charlesworth and then Melville had
proposed to her.
Though Noreen's heart was frozen towards her quondam friend, Ida never
perceived the fact. For the elder woman was so thoroughly satisfied with
herself that it never occurred to her that any one whom she honoured with
her liking could do aught but be devoted to her in return.
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