Her first sensation, as soon as the tumult in her thoughts suffered her to have any intelligent sensation at all, was one of secret pleasure and relief.  It was a surprise to herself—­she even struggled against it, and tried to convince herself that she was only miserable, but still the sensation remained.  Guilty or not, there it was, and she could not help it.  The news of Bressant’s engagement to Sophie was a relief and a pleasure to her.

The real pain—­hard and bitter, and with no redeeming grain of consolation—­had been the unexpected and unexplained change in his manner.  She had met him, anticipating a tender and delicious renewal of the relations on which they had parted—­the memory of which had never left her during her absence, and which had grown every day sweeter and more precious in the recollection.  His silence and coldness, unaccompanied by any show of reasons, had penetrated her soul like iron.  It could only be that she had become distasteful to him, that what he had said and done before her departure had been in a spirit of deliberate trifling, or, at the best, that it had been a mistake, of which he had been convinced during their separation, and now wished to correct.  The pride and resentment that were in her had risen up in defence, and, had the matter rested there, might ultimately have gained the victory.

But his engagement to Sophie—­that was another story.  In the first place, if he loved her sister, it did not therefore follow that he disliked her; quite the contrary.  And, on the other hand, it readily explained the restraint and embarrassment of his manner.  How otherwise could he have acted?  Well—­and was this all?

Ah! no—­not all!  There was a tawny light in Cornelia’s eyes as she lay upon the bed, flushed and dishevelled.  She was thinking of a moment—­that one little moment—­when their glances had met, and penetrated to a fatal depth.  For a time, the ensuing events had swept it from her memory; but now it returned, charged with a deeper and darker meaning than Cornelia at present cared to recognize.  She was satisfied that it gave her comfort.  She hid her thought away, as a miser does his gold:  it was enough that it had existence, and could be used when the fitting hour should come.  She had not seen the little episode of the watch; but that was, perhaps, scarcely necessary.

The intensity of the beautiful woman’s reflections at length exhausted her mind’s power of maintaining them:  she turned over on her side, and began to follow with her eye the arabesques worked upon the white counterpane.  It was just the sort of occupation which suited her mood.  The arabesques were pretty and graceful; the counterpane was of immaculate whiteness; there was just enough of effort in tracing out the intricacies of the interlacements to give a gentle sensation of pleasure; and there was the latent consciousness, behind this voluntary trifling, that it could be exchanged at any moment for the most terribly real and absorbing excitement.