Every glance
toward the cold, averted face of the artist, inspired her with more
than his own scorn toward what she was and the frivolities of her
life. She tried to shut her eyes to the truth, and clung desperately
to every impeding trifle; but felt all the time that an irresistible
tide of events was carrying her toward the revelation that she
loved a man who despised her, and always would despise her.
And on this night, when she saw their dim forms and heard their low
tones as Miss Burton and Van Berg talked earnestly on the farther
end of the piazza; when she saw that they grasped hands in parting,
and noted the rapt look upon his face as he passed her by uncaringly
and unnotingly--the revelation came. It was as sharply and painfully
distinct as if he had stopped and plunged a knife into her heart.
With all her faults and follies, Ida had never been a pale shadowy
creature, full of complex psychological moods which neither she
nor any one else could untangle. She knew whom and what she liked
and disliked, and it was not her nature to do things by halves.
There had always been a kind of simplicity and straightforwardness
even in her wickedness; and she usually seemed to people quite as
bad, and indeed worse, than she really was.
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