ept across her vision
the memory of what she had always prophesied as her wedding:--a
crowded church, "The Light That Breathed O'er Eden" from an unseen
singer; then the warm air trembling to the Lohengrin march; all
heads turning; the procession down the aisle; herself
appearing--climax of everything--a delicious and brilliant figure:
graceful, rosy, shy, an imperial prize for the groom, who in these
foreshadowings had always been very indistinct. The picture had
always failed in outline there: the bridegroom's nearest approach
to definition had never been clearer than a composite photograph.
The truth is, Cora never in her life wished to be married.

But she was.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Valentine Corliss had nothing to do but to wait for the money
his friend Antonio would send him by cable. His own cable,
anticipating his letter, had been sent yesterday, when he came
back to the hotel, after lunching in the country with Cora.

As he walked down Corliss Street, after his tumultuous interview
with her, he was surprised to find himself physically tremulous:
he had not supposed that an encounter, however violent, with an
angry woman could so upset his nerves. It was no fear of Pryor
which shook him. He knew that Pryor did not mean to cause his
arrest--certainly not immediately. Of course, Pryor knew that Cora
would tell him. The old fellow's move was a final notification. It
meant: "Get out of town within twenty-four hours." And Corliss
intended to obey. He would have left that evening, indeed, without
the warning; his trunk was packed.

He would miss Cora. He had kept a cool head throughout their
affair until the last; but this morning she had fascinated him:
and he found himself passionately admiring the fury of her. She
had confused him as he had never been confused. He thought he had
tamed her; thought he owned her; and the discovery of this mistake
was what made him regret that she would not come away with him.
Such a flight, until to-day, had been one of his apprehensions:
but now the thought that it was not to be, brought something like
pain. At least, he felt a vacancy; had a sense of something
lacking. She would have been a bright comrade for the voyage; and
he thought of gestures of hers, turns of the head, tricks of the
lovely voice; and sighed.

Of course it was best for him that he could return to his old
trails alone and free; he saw that. Cora would have been a
complication and an embarrassment