She watched the taxi out of sight and went slowly back to the kitchen.
She was still sitting there in the dark when Hilda came. At her mother's step, Anne jumped up and lit the light, otherwise she would have to explain or invent an excuse for sitting in the dark. No one understood without words. The smallest act had to be dragged out, cut up into speech and put together like an intricate puzzle. And then it was not really understood.
Radiantly gay, her curls damp and tight with the fog, Hilda bustled in.
"You just lit the light, didn't you? I thought I saw it go up."
"Did you? How was the show?"
"Anne, it was too funny for words. I haven't enjoyed a thing so for years. You must see it. There's a matinée to-morrow. I'll feel selfish if you don't."
"Maybe I will, sometime before it goes. It'll be here a week. But I can't to-morrow. Roger's home."
Hilda's gayety vanished. "Oh," she said forlornly, "I suppose you'll be going, then."
"Yes. To-morrow, I think."
Hilda took off her things and they had some hot cocoa. In its warmth, her cheerfulness returned. To-morrow her freedom would be gone. But to-morrow was to-morrow.