Her dressing-bag was open. She
could see the silver backs and tops of the brushes and bottles in it
gleaming. They made her think suddenly of England. She had no idea why.
But it was too warm for England. There, in the autumn time, an open
window would let in a cold air, probably a biting blast. The wooden
shutter would be shaking. There would be, perhaps, a sound of rain. And
Domini found herself vaguely pitying England and the people mewed up in
it for the winter. Yet how many winters she had spent there, dreaming of
liberty and doing dreary things--things without savour, without meaning,
without salvation for brain or soul. Her mind was still dulled to a
certain extent by the narcotic she had taken. She was a strong and
active woman, with long limbs and well-knit muscles, a clever fencer,
a tireless swimmer, a fine horsewoman. But to-night she felt almost
neurotic, like one of the weak or dissipated sisterhood for whom "rest
cures" are invented, and by whom bland doctors live. That heaving red
floor continually emphasised for her her present feebleness. She hated
feebleness. So she blew out the candle and, with misplaced energy,
strove resolutely to sleep.
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