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She ceases, her work accomplished. The others in the room grow weak with fear, as they tell themselves that things are growing too dreadful to be borne much longer. When the silence is quite insupportable, poor little Dorothy struggles to the front. She is enchanted, and stands there for a minute or two spellbound by the glory of the scene before her. Then a desire to see her beloved lake from the great windows in the northern gallery takes possession of her. She will go and look at it, and afterwards creep on tiptoe to the library, seize the book she had been reading before dinner, and make her way back again to her room without any one being in the least the wiser. Anything will be better than sitting here any longer, dreaming dismal day-dreams. "You really will, you know," says Captain Rodney, warningly; then, as though ambitious of piling up the agony, he says, sotto voce, yet loud enough to be heard, "I wonder if Geoff will go to mass with her?".
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"Nevertheless, you might have waived that fact, and sent down word you had a headache." She tells herself this lie without a blush, perhaps because she is so pale at the bare thought that her eyes may never again be gladdened by his presence, that the blood refuses to rise. "Why not? it just suits him: 'A little, round, fat, oily man of——'" "Yes, Sir Nicholas,—just an hour and a half. He desired me to say he had had another 'dart' in his rheumatic knee this morning, so hoped you would excuse him.".
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