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. "There is another mystery I would have solved," said Trenchard, addressing Wild; "you have told me much, but not enough. Martha was quite right. "Give me till to-morrow," implored she, "and if I can bring myself to part with him, you shall have him without another word. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. I feel beautiful. The man’s passion was infectious.
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