It was now almost two months into the past; but all Saint X was still feverish from it, and she herself had only begun again to have unhaunted and unbroken sleep.

While she was relating Janet forgot herself; but when the story was told--all of it except Adelaide's own part; that she entirely omitted--Janet went back to her personal point of view.

"A beautiful love story!" she exclaimed.

"And right here in prosaic Saint X!" "Is it Saint X that is prosaic," said Adelaide, "or is it we, in failing to see the truth about familiar things ?" "Perhaps," replied Janet, in the tone that means "not at all." To her a thrill of emotion or a throb of pain felt by a titled person differed from the same sensation in an untitled person as a bar of supernal or infernal music differs from the whistling of a farm boy on his way to gather the eggs; if the title was royal--Janet wept when an empress died of a cancer and talked of her "heroism" for weeks.
"Of course," she went on musingly, to Adelaide, "it was very beautiful for Lorry and Estelle to love each other.

Still, I can't help feeling that--At least, I can understand Arden Wilmot's rage.