was in her mind. This was a vivid foreknowledge that the betrothed of
Mr. Mudge would, unless conciliated in advance by a successful rescue,
almost hate her on the day she should break a particular piece of news.
How could that unfortunate otherwise endure to hear of what, under the
protection of Lady Ventnor, was after all so possible.




CHAPTER IX


Meanwhile, since irritation sometimes relieved her, the betrothed of Mr.
Mudge found herself indebted to that admirer for amounts of it perfectly
proportioned to her fidelity. She always walked with him on Sundays,
usually in the Regent's Park, and quite often, once or twice a month he
took her, in the Strand or thereabouts, to see a piece that was having a
run. The productions he always preferred were the really good
ones--Shakespeare, Thompson or some funny American thing; which, as it
also happened that she hated vulgar plays, gave him ground for what was
almost the fondest of his approaches, the theory that their tastes were,
blissfully, just the same. He was for ever reminding her of that,
rejoicing over it and being affectionate and wise about it. There were
times when she wondered how in the world she could "put up with" him, how
she could put up with any man so smugly unconscious of the immensity of
her difference. It was just for this difference that, if she was to be
liked at all, she wanted to be liked, and if that was not the source of
Mr. Mudge's admiration, she asked herself what on earth _could_ be? She
was not different only at one point, she was different all round; unless
perhaps indeed in being practically human, which her mind just barely