She heard the trampling and swinging
of the dancers behind her, and the rhythmic sway of the waltz music.
"There are trees," she said aloud. Would the trees make up for St. John
Hirst? She would be a Persian princess far from civilisation, riding her
horse upon the mountains alone, and making her women sing to her in the
evening, far from all this, from the strife and men and women--a
form came out of the shadow; a little red light burnt high up in its
blackness.
"Miss Vinrace, is it?" said Hewet, peering at her. "You were dancing
with Hirst?"
"He's made me furious!" she cried vehemently. "No one's any right to be
insolent!"
"Insolent?" Hewet repeated, taking his cigar from his mouth in surprise.
"Hirst--insolent?"
"It's insolent to--" said Rachel, and stopped. She did not know exactly
why she had been made so angry. With a great effort she pulled herself
together.
"Oh, well," she added, the vision of Helen and her mockery before her,
"I dare say I'm a fool." She made as though she were going back into the
ballroom, but Hewet stopped her.
"Please explain to me," he said. "I feel sure Hirst didn't mean to hurt
you."
When Rachel tried to explain, she found it very difficult. She could not
say that she found the vision of herself walking in a crocodile with her
hair down her back peculiarly unjust and horrible, nor could she explain
why Hirst's assumption of the superiority of his nature and experience
had seemed to her not only galling but terrible--as if a gate had
clanged in her face.
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