Arithelli sat upon her trunk, which she considered cleaner than the
chairs, and watched the process, her green eyes assuming a curious
veiled expression, a hank of copper-tinted hair falling upon her
shoulders.
There was something uncanny in her capacity for keeping still, and she
had none of the usual and natural fidgetiness of a young girl. In
whatever position of sitting or standing she found herself she was
capable of remaining for an indefinite period.
When the carpenter's manipulations had ceased she hung up her dresses
carefully, put the rest of her things back into the trunk, as being the
safest place, and sitting down again began to cry in a low, painful
way, utterly unlike the light April shower emotion of the ordinary
woman.
Here she was in Barcelona, and the fulfilled desire seemed likely to
become already Dead Sea fruit. Supposing she got ill, or failed to
satisfy the audience. She would see her name to-morrow when she went
out in large letters on the posters of the Hippodrome:
"_Arithelli, the beautiful English equestrienne_," and underneath some
appalling picture of herself in columbine skirts, or jockey's silk
jacket and cap and top boots.
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