But this momentary sensation left her depressed and
fatigued. What had she done with her life? What future was there before
her? What was make-believe, and what was real? Were these proposals and
intimacies and adventures real, or was the contentment which she had
seen on the faces of Susan and Rachel more real than anything she had
ever felt?
She made herself ready to go downstairs, absentmindedly, but her fingers
were so well trained that they did the work of preparing her almost of
their own accord. When she was actually on the way downstairs, the blood
began to circle through her body of its own accord too, for her mind
felt very dull.
Mr. Perrott was waiting for her. Indeed, he had gone straight into the
garden after luncheon, and had been walking up and down the path for
more than half an hour, in a state of acute suspense.
"I'm late as usual!" she exclaimed, as she caught sight of him. "Well,
you must forgive me; I had to pack up. . . . My word! It looks stormy!
And that's a new steamer in the bay, isn't it?"
She looked at the bay, in which a steamer was just dropping anchor, the
smoke still hanging about it, while a swift black shudder ran through
the waves. "One's quite forgotten what rain looks like," she added.
But Mr. Perrott paid no attention to the steamer or to the weather.
"Miss Murgatroyd," he began with his usual formality, "I asked you to
come here from a very selfish motive, I fear.
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