She was
languidly indifferent at dinner; now she is superbly indifferent. This
morning and yesterday she was a gay young girl, eager for a mountain
scramble or a frolic of any kind. How many more phases will she
exhibit before the week is over?"
Poor Madge could not have answered that question herself. She was
under the control of one of the chief inspirations of feeling and
action. Moods of which she had never dreamed would become inevitable;
thoughts which nothing external could suggest would arise in her own
heart and determine her manner.
In ceasing to hope one also ceases to fear, and Graydon admitted to
himself that he had never before felt the change in Madge so deeply.
The weak, timid little girl he had once known now looked as if she
could quietly face anything. The crowded room, the stare of strangers,
were simply as if they were not; the approach of a thunder-gust in the
sultry evening was unheeded; when a loud peal drowned her voice, she
simply waited till she could be heard again, and then went on without
a tremor in her tones, while all around her people were nervous,
starting, and exclaiming. There was not the faintest suggestion of
high tragedy in her manner. To a casual observer it was merely the
somewhat proud and cold reserve of a lady in a public place, while
under the eyes of a strange and miscellaneous assemblage.
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