As she did so she caught sight of herself in the mirror
and wondered absurdly why she should have kept all her hair and lost so
much of her face. She looked more top-heavy than ever. Her face was a small
oblong, her eyes out of all proportion. She thought herself hideous.
She had heard two hours before that Gathbroke was in Paris attached to
the British Commission. She had met an old acquaintance, a San Francisco
newspaper man, who had taken her to lunch and spoken of him casually.
Gathbroke had good-naturedly given him an Interview when other members of
the Commission had been inaccessible.
Gathbroke had told her nothing of a definite object when he wrote her that
he was off for Paris. Nor had he mentioned it in the note he had written
her after his arrival. This had been merely to tell her that he was feeling
as well as he ever had felt in his life and was enjoying himself. Polite
admonition not to tire herself out. He was always hers gratefully and her
devoted friend.
He had written the note at the Rite Hotel, but when, assuming this was
his address, she had called him up on her arrival, she had received the
information that he was not stopping there, nor had been.
Gora was very proud. But she was also very much in love; and she had been
in love with Gathbroke for twelve years. For the greater part of that time
she had believed it to be hopeless, but it had always been with her, a sad
but not too painful undertone in her busy life.
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