She was furiously angry. 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. He had been thrilled at her attitude about the subject, which was simply not to turn others into vampires. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love. “What’s odd?” “Oh, everything!” She shivered, and went to the fire and poked it. She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it.
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