Of course, she was weak--of course, she was foolish,--we will grant that she was anything the reader chooses to call her. It is much better for a woman nowadays to be defiant rather than yielding,--aggressive, not submissive,--violent, not meek. We all know that! To abuse a husband well all round, is the modern method of managing him! But poor, foolish, loving, sensitive Thelma had nothing of the magnificent strength of mind possessed by most wives of to-day,--she could only realize that Philip--her Philip--was "utterly weary and broken-hearted"--for the sake of another woman--and that other woman actually pitied her! She pitied herself too, a little vaguely--her brows ached and throbbed violently--there was a choking sensation in her throat, but she could not weep. Tears would have relieved her tired brain, but no tears fell. She strove to decide on some immediate plan of action,--Philip would be home to-morrow,--she recoiled at the thought of meeting him, knowing what she knew. Glancing dreamily at her own figure, reflected by the lamplight in the long mirror opposite, she recognized that she was fully attired in outdoor costume--all save her hat, which she had taken off after her first greeting of Lady Winsleigh, and which was still on the table at her side. She looked at the clock,--it was five minutes to seven. Eight o'clock was her dinner-hour, and thinking of this, she suddenly rang the bell. Morris immediately answered it.
"I shall not dine at home," she said in her usual gentle voice; "I am going to see some friend this evening. I may not be back till--till late."
"Very well, my lady," and Morris retired without seeing anything remarkable in his mistress's announcement. Thelma drew a long breath of relief as he disappeared, and, steadying her nerves by a strong effort, passed into her own boudoir,--the little sanctum specially endeared to her by Philip's frequent presence there. How cosy and comfortable a home-nest it looked!--a small fire glowed warmly in the grate, and Britta, whose duty it was to keep this particular room in order, had lit the lamp,--a rosy globe supported by a laughing cupid,--and had drawn the velvet curtains close at the window to keep out the fog and chilly air--there were fragrant flowers on the table,--Thelma's own favorite lounge was drawn up to the fender in readiness for her,--opposite to it stood the deep, old-fashioned easy chair in which Philip always sat. She looked round upon all these familiar things with a dreary sense of strangeness and desolation, and the curves of her sweet mouth trembled a little and drooped piteously. But her resolve was taken, and she did not hesitate or weep. She sat down to her desk and wrote a few brief lines to her father--this letter she addressed and stamped ready for posting.