He would have lied up to the hilt if it
had been required of him, because his instinct--that instinct which
had saved him untold times from blundering--warned him that danger was
at hand. It told him that it was now or never, and the realization
filled him with a reckless resolve which was ready to ride down all
principles and honor. He was still sufficiently master of himself to
hide the storm; it showed itself only in so far that, when he stood
before Lois, he seemed more moved and agitated than she had ever seen
him. She had just returned from a long and lonely ride, and was about
to retire to change her white habit, when he came upon her in the
entrance hall. Had he not found her himself, she would have refused to
see him, for she dreaded his message. She felt that he had come to
urge her attendance at the opening ceremony, and old fondness for
social pleasures of that kind had given place to dislike. It was the
only change that sorrow had wrought upon her character. Otherwise she
was the same as she had always been. For one week she had suffered
something like despair, and then the brave spirit in her despised
itself for its weakness, and set to work on the rebuilding of her life
on new foundations. To all appearances, she had succeeded admirably in
her task. There was no drooping hopelessness in her attitude toward
the world. And if beneath the surface there lay hidden the dangerous
flaw of purposelessness, no one knew--at least, so she believed.
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