He put it down
on a table by Lady Holme.
"Is there anything else, my lady?"
She supposed that the question was meant as a very discreet hint to her
that the man would be glad to go to bed. For a moment she did not reply,
but kept him waiting. She was thinking rapidly, considering whether she
would do the desperate thing or not, whether she would summon one of the
actors for the violent scene her nature demanded persistently that night.
After the opera she had been due at a ball to which Leo Ulford was
going. She had promised to go in to supper with him and to arrive by a
certain hour. He was wondering, waiting, now, at this moment. She knew
that. The house was in Eaton Square, not far off. Should she send the
footman with a note to Leo, saying that she was too tired to come to the
ball but that she was sitting up at home? That was what she was rapidly
considering while the footman stood waiting. Leo would come, and then--
presently--Lord Holme would come. And then? Then doubtless would happen
the scene she longed for, longed for with a sort of almost crazy desire
such as she had never felt before.
She glanced up and saw an astonished expression upon the footman's pale
face. How long had she kept him there waiting? She had no idea.
"There is nothing else," she said slowly.
She paused, then added, reluctantly:
"You can go to bed."
The man went softly out of the room. As he shut the door she breathed a
deep sigh, that was almost a sob.
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