The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. Now, as she stared at the image of her own face, she recalled something Major Alderley had said. “Oh yes,” said Miss Klegg; “I thought every one knew. Servants were passing backwards and forwards with tea and chocolate. Schoolgirl. What would he come as? Presently she roused herself with a guilty start from the task of dressing and re-dressing Mr. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him.
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