Her only wish was to creep
away and hide herself from every one.
However, through all her confusion she was aware of her
determination not to betray to them that she was ill. "If only the
cat wouldn't grow so fast, I believe I could manage," was her
desperate thought. There was a roaring in her ears; she caught
suddenly from an infinite distance the voice of the stout young man-
-"She's ill! She's fainting!"
She was aware that she struggled to face him with fierce protesting
eyes. The next thing she knew was that she lay for the second time
that afternoon in his arms. She felt that he laid her, clumsily but
gently, upon the sofa; some one sprinkled cold water on her
forehead. Deep down in her soul she hated and despised herself for
this weakness before strangers. She closed her eyes tightly,
desiring to conceal not so much the others as herself from her
scornful gaze. She heard some one say something about a cup of tea,
and she wanted it suddenly with a desperate, fiery desire, but she
would not speak, no, not if they were to torture her with thirst for
days and days--to that extent at least she could preserve her
independence.
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