Suky Tawdry.
Her. I think of her. I think so hard of her I think I know her colour—fair—her figure—plump—her walk, the shade of her eye.—I am sure it is blue. I begin to dream of her. In the dreams she speaks and I hear her voice. She says my name, and laughs.
I think I am dreaming of her when Margaret comes to my room with a letter, from him.
She''s ours, he writes.
I read it, then fall back upon my pillow and hold the letter to my mouth. I put my lips to the paper. He might be my lover, after all—or, she might. For I could not want her now, more than I could a lover.
But I could not want a lover, more than I want freedom.
I put his letter upon the fire, then draw up my reply: Send her at once. I am sure I shall love her. She shall be the dearer to me for coming from London, where you are!—we settled on the wording before he left.
That done, I need only wait, one day and then another. The day after that is the day she comes.
She is due at Marlow at three o''clock. I send William Inker for her, in good time. But though I sit and seem to feel her drawing close, the trap comes back without her: the trains are late, there are fogs. I pace, and cannot settle. At five o''clock I send William again—again he comes back. Then I must take supper with my uncle. While Charles pours out my wine I ask him, ''Any news yet, of Miss Smith?''—My uncle hearing me whisper, however, he sends Charles away.