That thought made the poems seem to her remarkably unlike
life.
She looked at the clock. The footman had been away long enough to do his
errand. Just as she was thinking this he came into the room.
"Well?" she said.
"I gave Mr. Ulford the note, my lady."
"Then you can go to bed. Good-night. I'll put out the lights here."
"Thank you, my lady."
As he went away she turned again to the poems; but now she could not read
them. Her eyes rested upon them, but her mind took in nothing of their
meaning. Presently--very soon--she laid the book down and sat listening.
The footman had shut the drawing-room door. She got up and opened it. She
wanted to hear the sound of the latch-key being put into the front door
by Leo Ulford. It seemed to her as if that sound would be like the /leit
motif/ of her determination to govern, to take her own way, to strike a
blow against the selfish egoism of men. After opening the door she sat
down close to it and waited, listening.
Some minutes passed. Then she heard--not the key put into the hall door;
it had not occurred to her that she was much too far away to hear
that--but the bang of the door being shut.
Quickly she closed the drawing-room door, went back to the distant sofa,
sat down upon it and began to turn over the poems once more. She even
read one quite carefully. As she finished it the door was opened.
She looked up gaily to greet Leo and saw her husband coming into the
room.
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