She rose abruptly from the table. The effort of her life was to
shake herself free of the remembrances which haunted her
perpetually as they were haunting her now. Her memory was her
worst enemy; her one refuge from it was in change of occupation
and change of scene.
"May I go into the conservatory, Lady Janet?" she asked.
"Certainly, my dear."
She bent her head to her protectress, looked for a moment with a
steady, compassionate attention at Horace Holmcroft, and, slowly
crossing the room, entered the winter-garden. The eyes of Horace
followed her, as long as she was in view, with a curious
contradictory expression of admiration and disapproval. When she
had passed out of sight the admiration vanished, but the
disapproval remained. The face of the young man contracted into a
frown: he sat silent, with his fork in his hand, playing absently
with the fragments on his plate.
"Take some French pie, Horace," said Lady Janet.
"No, thank you."
"Some more chicken, then?"
"No more chicken."
"Will nothing tempt you?"
"I will take some more wine, if you will allow me."
He filled his glass (for the fifth or sixth time) with claret,
and emptied it sullenly at a draught.
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