She no longer felt sick or dizzy, her muscles returned to a relaxed, supple state. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said. But, moving through into the first of the large main rooms that led one into another around the house, with here and there an antechamber between, it was obvious that the task was not going to be easy. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. “What do you think of that farce?” he exclaimed bitterly. Righting, however, instantly afterwards, she scudded with the greatest rapidity over the boiling waves, to whose mercy she was now entirely abandoned.
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