Until the evening of her party the world had been to Marguerite
something that arranged all her happiness and never interfered
with it. Only soundness and loveliness of nature, inborn,
undestroyable, could have withstood such luxury, indulgence,
surfeit as she had always known.
On that night which was designed to end for her the life of
childhood, she had, for the first time, beheld the symbol of the
world's diviner beauty--a cross. All her guests had individually
greeted her as though each were happier in her happiness. Except
one--he did not care. He had spoken to her upon entering with the
manner of one who wished himself elsewhere, he alone brought no
tribute to her of any kind, in his eyes, by his smile, through the
pressure of his hand.
The slight wounded her at the moment; she had not expected to have
a guest to whom she would be nothing and to whom it would seem no
unkindness to let her know this. The slight left its trail of pain
as the evening wore on and he did not come near her. Several
times, while standing close to him, she had looked her surprise,
had shadowed her face with coldness for him to see. For the first
time in her life she felt herself rejected, suffered the
fascination of that pain. Afterward she had intentionally pressed
so close to him in the throng of her guests that her arm brushed
his sleeve. At last she had disengaged herself from all others and
had even gone to him with the inquiries of a hostess; and he had
forced himself to smile at her and had forgotten her while he spoke
to her--as though she were a child.
Pages:
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195