“I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. He found his youngest daughter intrusive in his thoughts all through the morning, and still more so in the afternoon. 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. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected.
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