His Hour

In life there comes sometimes a tidal wave in the ebb of which all old

landmarks are washed out. And so it was with Tamara. She had fallen

into bed half dead with fatigue and emotion, but when she woke the

sickly gray light of a Russian winter mid-day pouring into her room,

and saw her maid's stolid face, back rushed the events of the night,

and she drew in her breath with almost a hiss. Yes, nothing could ever

be the same again. "Leave me, Johnson," she said, "I am too tired, I

cannot get up yet."

And the respectful maid crept from the room.

Then she lay back in her pillows and forced herself to face the

position, and review what she had done, and what she must now do.

First of all, she loved Gritzko, that she could no longer argue with

herself about. Secondly, she was an English lady, and could not let

herself be kissed by a man whose habit it was to play with whom he

chose, and then pass on. She was free, and he was free, it followed his

caressing then--divine as it had been--was an absolute insult. If he

wanted her so much he should have asked her to marry him. He had not

done so, therefore the only thing which remained for her to do, was to

go away. The sooner the better.

Then she thought of all the past.

From the moment of the good-bye at the Sphinx it had been a humiliation

for her. Always, always, he had been victor of the situation. Had she

been ridiculously weak? What was this fate which had fallen upon her?

What had she done to draw such circumstances? Then even as she lay

there, communing sternly with herself, a thrill swept over her, as her

thoughts went back to that last passionate kiss. And her slender hands

clenched under the clothes.

"If he really loved me," she sighed, "I would face the uncertain

happiness with him. I know now he causes me emotions of which I never

dreamed and for which I would pay that price. But I have no single

proof that he does really love me. He may be playing in the same way

with Tatiane Shébanoff--and the rest." And at this picture her pride

rose in wild revolt.

Never, never! should he play with her again at least!

Then she thought of all her stupid ways, perhaps if she had been

different, not so hampered by prejudice, but natural like all these

women here, perhaps she could have made him really love her.--Ah!--if

so.