"Ah!" she murmured, "I was so sure you loved me!" More than its rigid misery, the humble bewilderment on her face, as of a creature stricken helpless, and not comprehending its pain, hurt him, warned him that every moment made it more difficult to keep down the fluttering of a longing he would not, must never satisfy. He seemed to crush a harsh hand on its delicate wings as he said--
"And now you will go. You will let me walk home with you?"
She went towards the door, her hand still in his.
"You should not go alone. I beg of you, dear, to let me come."
They were in the hall, and she had not looked at him again. She put her hand out to the door and then she paused. Perior had also paused.
"Will I? O Camelia!" At that moment he felt himself to be more false than he had been during all the scene with her, for as he kissed her the fluttering wings beat upward with the exultant throb of a released desire. And she did not know. She believed him. All her hope was stricken in the dust. And yet they clung together--lovers; he ashamed of his knowledge; she pathetic, tragic, in her chastened, her humiliated, trust and ignorance.
Mrs. Fox-Darriel was walking across the hall on her way to the staircase when Camelia entered. She had not seen Camelia since the morning's catastrophe, a catastrophe as yet unannounced, but plainly discernible in the departure of the Henges, in Lady Paton's retirement, Camelia's disappearance, and Mary's heavy silence. Mary herself hardly knew as yet, could only suspect, with a sickening droop of disappointment following a hope, unreasonable perhaps, but delicious while it so briefly lasted.
Mrs. Fox-Darriel plied her with profitless questions during tea-time; she only knew that Sir Arthur had ridden away, that Lady Henge had followed with the boxes, that Aunt Angelica was in her room, and that Camelia had gone out. Mrs. Fox-Darriel was not disposed to let Camelia off easily; and now, undeterred by the almost vacant stare her young hostess bent upon her, she rushed at her imperatively.
"You look quite half mad, Camelia! What is the matter? The Henges are gone, she as gloomy as a hearse. I have not seen your mother since breakfast. Has a thunderbolt struck the house? You accepted Arthur Henge yesterday, and to-day you give him his _congé_. Is it possible?"