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But all that could be ascertained in the village was, that a man had ridden off a short time before in the direction of London. She must weigh her situation. He was looking pale and ill. “We can,” he said, “and we will. He will not come. She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. “Yeah. “A most wonderful likeness, too. ‘I told her you couldn’t have been flirting, but she wouldn’t believe me.
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