I must have been mad," she said, and she huddled herself upon her bed and wept aloud.
She ran over in her mind the conversations which she and Hilary Chayne had exchanged, and each recollection accused her of impatience and paid a tribute to his gentleness.

On the very first day he had asked her to go with him and her heart cried out now: "Why didn't I go ?" He had been faithful and loyal ever since, and she had called his faithfulness importunity and his loyalty a humiliation.

She struck a match and looked at her watch and by habit wound it up.

And she drearily wondered on how many, many nights she would have to wind it up and speculate in ignorance what he, her lover, was doing and in what corner of the world, before the end of her days was reached.

What would become of her?
she asked.