She was never able to trace the changes her attitude had undergone, from the time when she believed herself to be the pampered Queen of Fortune, the crown of a good man’s love (and secretly, but nobly, worshipping some one else), to the time when she realized she was in fact just a mannequin for her lover’s imagination, and that he cared no more for the realities of her being, for the things she felt and desired, for the passions and dreams that might move her, than a child cares for the sawdust in its doll. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. “No, stay, Lucy. For four hours he had shifted his own troubles to the shoulders of these imaginative characters. “I should like you to come here,” she said. She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. “You underestimate your own sickness, and the ill humors that struck you may strike again. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme. I may say she does not sound in the least like Mary,’ said Mrs Sindlesham bluntly. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him.
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