The cold wind had not taken the flush out of her cheeks; she walked about the parlors and talked to the guests, and, to her own surprise, knew their names and what they said to her. Since she had gone out upon the lawn to take the shawl to the foolish virgin there, the world had undergone a revolution that made her stagger. Such a strong tide had borne her chance of happiness away from her, already almost out of sight, she wondered that she could stand firm and watch it go. What a babble of voices! How wiry and shrill and imbecile the clanging of tongues! It was all like a dream. The woman whom she had dreaded, unmasked and harmless walked before her, a trifler among triflers, a poor rival indeed. The man whom she had lost stood there silent in a group of flippant talkers, more worthy and more manly now that he was beyond her reach. What was the use of regretting? No use. What was the use of anything? No use. Miss Rothermel looked uncommonly well, they said to each other driving home, almost pretty, really, and so young. What could that tête-à-tête have signified between her and Mr. Andrews? He was evidently out of spirits. What an odd thing it would be after all if he had really liked her. There was something queer about it all. Going abroad with his cousins, however, didn't much look like it. It was a puzzle, and they gave it up. CHAPTER XXIII. P. P. C. Every day of that week Missy walked about as in a dream, and with a single thought in her mind. When and how should she meet Mr. Andrews, and was there any possible hope to be built upon the meeting? A hundred times, to be more accurate, a thousand times, she went over the scene; she made her confession, she entreated his pardon, she felt the joy of perfect understanding and confidence. She met him by the sea--on the cliffs--in the garden--in the library--at church--by the roadside--sometimes it was alone--sometimes there were others in the way. Ah! who does not know what ingenuity fancy has to multiply those interviews? How between troubled moments of sleep one goes through scene after scene of the ensnaring drama; underscored, obliterated, blotted, incessantly altering time and place--but through all walking and speaking the two, beside whom all other created souls are shadows? Who does not know the eloquence, the passion, the transport? Who has not burned with shame at the poor reality; the blundering words, if they ever come to be spoken; the miserable contradiction of Fate, if the interview ever comes about?