For the hundredth time that day she asked herself the feverish, torturing question--'Does she love him ?' 'Of course I shall get better,' she said lightly, stroking the girl's hair; 'or if not--what matter ?' Lucy shook her head.
'You must get better,' she said in a low, determined voice.

'And it must all come right.' Eleanor was silent.

In her own heart she knew more finally, more irrevocably every hour that for her it would never come right.

But how say to Lucy that her whole being hung now--not on any hope for herself, but on the fierce resolve that there should be none for Manisty?
Lucy gave a long sigh, rose to her feet, and went off to household duties.
Eleanor was left alone.

Her eyes, bright with fever, fixed themselves, unseeing, on the sunset sky, and the blue, unfamiliar peaks beneath it.
Cheerful sounds of rioting children and loud-voiced housewives came from below.