Thrusting her hand in her pocket it closed upon
her husband's card-case. She presented a card. It worked a rapid
transformation in the servant's manner, which did not escape her.
"Come in," he invited her.
She did not stop at the outstretched arm of the cloakman, but glided
quickly up the stairs toward a vision of handsome women and strains of
music. Harry Cresswell was sitting opposite and bending over an impudent
blue-and-blonde beauty. Mary slipped straight across to him and leaned
across the table. The hat fell off, but she let it go.
"Harry!" she tried to say as he looked up.
Then the table swayed gently to and fro; the room bowed and whirled
about; the voices grew fainter and fainter--all the world receded
suddenly far away. She extended her hands languidly, then, feeling so
utterly tired, let her eyelids drop and fell asleep.
She awoke with a start, in her own bed. She was physically exhausted but
her mind was clear. She must go down and meet him at breakfast and talk
frankly with him. She would let bygones be bygones. She would explain
that she had followed him to save him, not to betray him. She would
point out the greater career before him if only he would be a man; she
would show him that they had not failed. For herself she asked nothing,
only his word, his confidence, his promise to try.
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