I
"It can’t be the same night!" said Angelica to herself. "It can’t be
only an hour ago that I was in the kitchen at home!"
For here she was now, in a soft little nest of a room, furnished in
mahogany and dull blue, with every sort of convenience and luxury, with
a gleaming white bathroom of its own, with long mirrors, shaded lamps,
easy chairs. It amazed her. She had locked the door and got undressed,
but she couldn’t persuade herself to go to bed. Barefooted, in a sturdy
cotton night-dress her mother had made, she wandered about, examining
everything like a happy child.
Then, not for the first time, she sat down before the dressing-table and
studied her own reflection in the triple mirror--the profile with the
long, delicate nose, the narrow cheek, the soft fullness of the chin.
Then she looked straight before her, at her dark and solemn face, her
long black hair, parted in the middle, making her more than ever like a
Madonna, sorrowful, spiritual.
She was vaguely aware of the rare and exotic quality of her charm, and
she was dissatisfied with herself because her thoughts were so
incongruous. She couldn’t help wondering how much the lace bedspread
cost, and where it had been bought. She had seen furnishings like these
in the shops, and she began to compute how much the whole thing must
have cost.
"For Gawd’s sake!" she cried impatiently. "Why can’t I just enjoy it,
and not be so----”
She had no word for her meaning. She got up, and from behind the
curtains looked out upon the clear and chilly May night, down below,
across the road, over a woodland of delicate young trees, scarcely
stirring in a faint wind. That august loveliness disturbed her. She
turned away, back to the shelter of the dainty room, puzzled and angry
because she couldn’t enjoy it with simplicity; because there was
something, in the night outside--or was it within herself?--that
distressed and hurt her.
Undine waiting for a soul!