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She had not sent to Mr. Spearman Nick's answer to her letter.
In the interval between writing to him and receiving his reply
she had broken with Strefford; she had therefore no object in
seeking her freedom. If Nick wanted his, he knew he had only to
ask for it; and his silence, as the weeks passed, woke a faint
hope in her. The hope flamed high when she read one day in the
newspapers a vague but evidently "inspired" allusion to the
possibility of an alliance between his Serene Highness the
reigning Prince of Teutoburg-Waldhain and Miss Coral Hicks of
Apex City; it sank to ashes when, a few days later, her eye lit
on a paragraph wherein Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer Hicks "requested to
state" that there was no truth in the report.
On the foundation of these two statements Susy raised one watch-tower
of hope after another, feverish edifices demolished or
rebuilt by every chance hint from the outer world wherein Nick's
name figured with the Hickses'. And still, as the days passed
and she heard nothing, either from him or from her lawyer, her
flag continued to fly from the quaking structures.
Apart from the custody of the children there was indeed little
to distract her mind from these persistent broodings. She
winced sometimes at the thought of the ease with which her
fashionable friends had let her drop out of sight. In the
perpetual purposeless rush of their days, the feverish making of
winter plans, hurrying off to the Riviera or St. Moritz, Egypt
or New York, there was no time to hunt up the vanished or to
wait for the laggard. Had they learned that she had broken her
"engagement" (how she hated the word!) to Strefford, and had the
fact gone about that she was once more only a poor hanger-on, to
be taken up when it was convenient, and ignored in the
intervals? She did not know; though she fancied Strefford's
newly-developed pride would prevent his revealing to any one
what had passed between them. For several days after her abrupt
flight he had made no sign; and though she longed to write and
ask his forgiveness she could not find the words. Finally it
was he who wrote: a short note, from Altringham, typical of all
that was best in the old Strefford. He had gone down to
Altringham, he told her, to think quietly over their last talk,
and try to understand what she had been driving at. He had to
own that he couldn't; but that, he supposed, was the very head
and front of his offending. Whatever he had done to displease
her, he was sorry for; but he asked, in view of his invincible
ignorance, to be allowed not to regard his offence as a cause
for a final break. The possibility of that, he found, would
make him even more unhappy than he had foreseen; as she knew,
his own happiness had always been his first object in life, and
he therefore begged her to suspend her decision a little longer.
He expected to be in Paris within another two months, and before
arriving he would write again, and ask her to see him.
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