It was fine work. She had been proud
of her share in it. Even allowing there were faults--irritability,
shortness of temper, a tendency to bossiness!--underneath it all was
a man. The gallant struggle, the difficulties overcome, the long
suffering, the high courage--all that she, reading between the
lines, had divined of his life's battle! Yes, it was a man she had
worshipped. A woman need not be ashamed of that. As Matthew he had
seemed to her conceited, priggish. As Aston Rowant she wondered at
his modesty, his patience.
And all these years he had been dreaming of her; had followed her to
New York; had--
There came a sudden mood so ludicrous, so absurdly unreasonable that
Ann herself stopped to laugh at it. Yet it was real, and it hurt.
He had come to New York thinking of Sylvia, yearning for Sylvia. He
had come to New York with one desire: to find Sylvia. And the
first pretty woman that had come across his path had sent Sylvia
clean out of his head. There could be no question of that. When
Ann Kavanagh stretched out her hand to him in that very room a
fortnight ago he had stood before her dazzled, captured. From that
moment Sylvia had been tossed aside and forgotten. Ann Kavanagh
could have done what she liked with him. She had quarrelled with
him that evening of the concert.
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