Even that little told on her sensitive organization; it roused her sinking energies of body and mind.
After watching her anxiously, without attracting her notice, Horace left her again to attend to the fire at the other end of the room.
Her eyes followed him slowly with a hard and tearless despair.
"Rally your spirits," she repeated to herself in a whisper.
"My spirits!
O God!"
She looked round her at the luxury and beauty of the room, as those look who take their leave of familiar scenes.
The moment after, her eyes sank, and rested on the rich dress that she wore a gift from Lady Janet.
She thought of the past; she thought of the future.
Was the time near when she would be back again in the Refuge, or back again in the streets?—she who had been Lady Janet's adopted daughter, and Horace Holmcroft's betrothed wife!
A sudden frenzy of recklessness seized on her as she thought of the coming end.
Horace was right!
Why not rally her spirits?
Why not make the most of her time?
The last hours of her life in that house were at hand.
Why not enjoy her stolen position while she could?
"Adventuress!" whispered the mocking spirit within her, "be true to your character.
Away with your remorse!
Remorse is the luxury of an honest woman."
She caught up her basket of wools, inspired by a new idea.
"Ring the bell!" she cried out to Horace at the fire-place.
He looked round in wonder.
The sound of her voice was so completely altered that he almost fancied there must have been another woman in the room.
"Ring the bell!" she repeated.
"I have left my work upstairs.
If you want me to be in good spirits, I must have my work."
Still looking at her, Horace put his hand mechanically to the bell and rang.
One of the men-servants came in.
"Go upstairs and ask my maid for my work," she said, sharply.
Even the man was taken by surprise: it was her habit to speak to the servants with a gentleness and consideration which had long since won all their hearts.
"Do you hear me?" she asked, impatiently.
The servant bowed, and went out on his errand.
She turned to Horace with flashing eyes and fevered cheeks.
"What a comfort it is," she said, "to belong to the upper classes!
A poor woman has no maid to dress her, and no footman to send upstairs.
Is life worth having, Horace, on less than five thousand a year?"
The servant returned with a strip of embroidery.
She took it with an insolent grace, and told him to bring her a footstool.
The man obeyed.
She tossed the embroidery away from her on the sofa.
"On second thoughts, I don't care about my work," she said. "Take it upstairs again."
The perfectly trained servant, marveling privately, obeyed once more.
Horace, in silent astonishment, advanced to the sofa to observe her more nearly.
"How grave you look!" she exclaimed, with an air of flippant unconcern.
"You don't approve of my sitting idle, perhaps?
Anything to please you!
I haven't got to go up and downstairs.
Ring the bell again."
"My dear Grace," Horace remonstrated, gravely, "you are quite mistaken.
I never even thought of your work."