At the hospital, after a little delay, she was guided to Vincent's own
room, recently deserted. A nurse came to tell her that all was going
well; Mr. Farron had had a good night, and was taking the anesthetic
nicely. Adelaide found the young woman's manner offensively encouraging,
and received the news with an insolent reserve.

"That girl is too wildly, spiritually bright," she said to herself. But
no manner would have pleased her.

Left alone, she sat down in a rocking-chair near the window. Vincent's
bag stood in the corner, his brushes were on the dressing-table, his tie
hung on the electric light. Immortal trifles, she thought, that might be
in existence for years.

She began poignantly to regret that she had not insisted on seeing him
again that morning. She had thought only of what was easiest for him. She
ought to have thought of herself, of what would make it possible for her
to go on living without him. If she could have seen him again, he might
have given her some precept, some master word, by which she could have
guided her life. She would have welcomed something imprisoning and safe.
It was cruel of him, she thought, to toss her out like this, rudderless
and alone. She wondered what he would have given her as a commandment,
and remembered suddenly the apocryphal last words which Vincent was fond
of attributing to George Washington, "Never trust a nigger with a gun."
She found herself smiling over them. Vincent was more likely to have
quoted the apparition's advice to Macbeth: "Be bloody, bold, and
resolute." That would have been his motto for himself, but not for her.
What was the principle by which he infallibly guided her?

How could he have left her so spiritually unprovided for? She felt