And now she had come to carry her
away, thinking that she had learned all she was likely to learn under her
present course of teaching. The Model, however, was to stay awhile,--a
week, or more,--before they should leave together.
Iris was obedient, as she was bound to be. She was respectful, grateful,
as a child is with a just, but not tender parent. Yet something was
wrong. She had one of her trances, and became statue-like, as before,
only the day after the Model's arrival. She was wan and silent, tasted
nothing at table, smiled as if by a forced effort, and often looked
vaguely away from those who were looking at her, her eyes just glazed
with the shining moisture of a tear that must not be allowed to gather
and fall. Was it grief at parting from the place where her strange
friendship had grown up with the Little Gentleman? Yet she seemed to
have become reconciled to his loss, and rather to have a deep feeling of
gratitude that she had been permitted to care for him in his last weary
days.
The Sunday after the Model's arrival, that lady had an attack of
headache, and was obliged to shut herself up in a darkened room alone.
Pages:
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466