“Very well,” said Mr. Woodstock, rising.  “I’ll go to the office.  Send some one round when she’s stirring, will you?”

Ida, to get rid of her troublesome though well-meaning attendant, had promised to lie down, but she had no need of sleep.  Alone, she still kept her chair by the fire, sitting like one worn out with fatigue, her hands upon her lap, her head drooping, her eyes fixed on vacancy.  She was trying to think, but thoughts refused to come consecutively, and a dull annoyance at this inability to reason upon her position fretted her consciousness.  Not with impunity can the human mind surrender itself for half a year to unvaried brooding upon one vast misery; the neglected faculties revenge themselves by rusting, and will not respond when at length summoned.  For months Ida’s thoughts had gone round and round about one centre of anguish, like a wailing bird circling over a ravaged nest.  The image of her mental state had been presented by an outward experience with which she became familiar.  Waking long before daylight, she would lie with her eyes directed to the little barred window, and watch till there came the first glimmer of dawn.  Even so was it her sole relief in the deep night of her misery to look forward for that narrow gleam of hope—­her ultimate release.  As the day approached, she made it the business of her thoughts to construct a picture of the events it would bring.  Even before hearing from Waymark, she had been sure that he would meet her; Waymark and freedom grew identical images; to be free meant to see him awaiting her and to put herself absolutely in his hands.  Now that everything had turned out differently from what she had grown to anticipate with certainty, she found herself powerless to face the unexpected.  Why had Waymark failed her?—­she could do no more than repeat the question a thousand times, till the faculty of self-communing forsook her.  It was as though the sun should fail one morning to rise upon the world, and men should stand hopeless of day for ever.

She wondered vaguely whither she had been brought.  At one moment she seemed to have been waiting an eternity in this unknown room, Julian’s face and voice unspeakably remote; then again she would look round and wonder that she no longer saw the hare walls and barred window of her cell, the present seeming only a dream.  All the processes of her mind were slow, sinewless.  She tried to hope for something, to expect that something would happen, but could not summon the energy.  Resentment, revolt, bitterness of spirit, of these things she knew just as little.  They had been strong enough within her at first, but how long ago that seemed!  She had no thought of time in the present; to sit waiting for an hour meant as little as to wait five minutes; such was the habit that had become impressed upon her by interminable days and nights.  When at length she heard a knock at the door it filled her with fear; she started to her feet and looked with unintelligent eyes at the woman who again presented herself.