You have had a stupid evening, but you
have made it pleasant to me by telling me what you thought of me. And
before you go I want you to believe that I shall try to keep that good
opinion." She spoke frankly in contrast to the slight worldly constraint
of Barker's manner; it seemed as if they had changed characters. And
then she extended her hand.
With a low bow, and without looking up, he took it. Again their
pulses seemed to leap together with one accord and the same mysterious
understanding. He could not tell if he had unconsciously pressed her
hand or if she had returned the pressure. But when their hands unclasped
it seemed as if it were the division of one flesh and spirit.
She remained standing by the open door until his footsteps passed down
the staircase. Then she suddenly closed and locked the door with an
instinct that Mrs. Barker might at once return now that he was gone, and
she wished to be a moment alone to recover herself. But she presently
opened it again and listened. There was a noise in the courtyard, but it
sounded like the rattle of wheels more than the clatter of a horseman.
Then she was overcome--a sudden sense of pity for the unfortunate
woman still hiding from her husband--and felt a momentary chivalrous
exaltation of spirit. Certainly she had done "good" to that wretched
"Kitty;" perhaps she had earned the epithet that Barker had applied to
her.
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