She ought to have been disposed to faint and scream at all these happenings; she ought to have maintained a front of outraged dignity to veil the sinking of her heart. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. “Dyed!” “And your figure?” “One’s corsetière arranges that. “Please stop, cabman,” she ordered. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. ’ ‘Yes,’ she agreed, but her manner was a degree less warm.
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