Was she not thin and haggard for want of rest and holiday?
Would not the summer weather be all done by the time Arthur graciously condescended to come back to her?
Were there not dark lines under her eyes, and was she not feeling a limp and wretched creature, unfit for any exertion?
What was wrong with her?
She hated her drawing--she hated everything.

And there was Arthur, proposing to go yachting with Lady Dunstable!--while she might toil and moil--all alone--in this August London! The tears rushed into her eyes.

Her pride only just saved her from a childish fit of crying.
But in the end resentment came to her aid, together with an angry and redoubled curiosity as to what might be happening to Lady Dunstable's precious son while Lady Dunstable was thus absorbed in robbing other women of their husbands.

Doris hurried her small household affairs, that she might get off early to the studio; and as she put on her hat, her fancy drew vindictive pictures of the scene which any day might realise--the scene at Franick Castle, when Lady Dunstable, unsuspecting, should open the letter which announced to her the advent of her daughter-in-law, Elena, _nee_ Flink--or should gather the same unlovely fact from a casual newspaper paragraph.

As for interfering between her and her rich deserts, Doris vowed to herself she would not lift a finger.