BACK TO THE PAST.
Hermia gave a little supper after the opera, and, when the last guest
had gone, she went up to her room and sank down in a heap before her
bedroom fire. As she stared at the coals, the terrified look came back
to her eyes and remained there. She had received a shock. And yet
Quintard had only uttered a dozen sentences, and these she could not
recall. And she had never seen him before. Had not she? She closed her
eyes. Once more she was in her little Brooklyn room; that room had been
transformed * * * and she was not alone. She opened her eyes and gave a
quick glance about her, then plunged her head between her knees and
clasped her hands about the back of it. She must conjure up some other
setting from that strange, far-away past of hers—one that had never
been reproduced in this house. There had been splendid forests in those
old domains of hers, forests which harbored neither tigers nor panthers,
bulbuls nor lotus-lilies. Only the wind sighed through them, or the
stately deer stalked down their dim, cool aisles. Once more she drifted
from the present. He was there, that lover of her dreams; she lay in his
arms; his lips were at her throat. How long and how faithfully she had
loved him! Every apple on the tree of life they had eaten together. And
how cavalierly she had dismissed him! how deliberately forgotten him!
She had not thought of him for months—until to-night.
She raised her head with abrupt impatience and scowled. What folly! How
many men had not she met with black hair and dark-blue eyes and athletic
frames? What woman ever really met her ideal? But—there had been
something besides physical resemblance of build and color. A certain
power had shone through his eyes, a certain magnetism had radiated from
him—she shuddered, threw herself back on the rug, and covered her eyes
with her hands. To meet him now!
* * * * *