She had caught a glimpse of something so much better, that her
former world looked as tawdry as the mimic scenery of a second-rate
theatre. A genuine man, such as she had not seen or at least not
recognized before, had stepped out before the gilt and tinsel, and
the miserable shams were seen in contrast in their rightful character.
But, in bringing the revelation, it happened he had so deeply
wounded her pride, that she had assured herself, again and again,
she would hate his very name as long as she lived. Did she hate him
as she saw him absorbed in conversation with Miss Burton whenever
he could obtain the opportunity? Did she hate him as she saw that
his eyes consciously avoided her and rested approvingly on another
woman? Were hate and love so near akin? Could the belief that he
despised her make her so wretched if she only hated him?
During the early part of the present week she had struggled almost
fiercely to retain her hold on her old life. Uniting herself to a
clique of thoughtless young people, who made amusement and excitement
their only pursuit, she seemed to be the gayest and most reckless
of them all, while her heart was sinking like lead.
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