It seemed to April that the voice would never stop. It beat and beat upon her brain, like the ticking of the watch that reminded her of the flying moments. "He won't come now," she said; "he won't come now." Seven o'clock had struck, the lamps were lit, evening had descended upon the street. He had never come as late as this before. But she still sat at the window, gazing down the street towards the figures, that became distinct for a moment in the lamplight. "He will not come now," she said, and suddenly she felt limp, tired, incapable of resistance. She put her head upon her knees and began to sob.
In a moment her mother's arms were round her. "But, darling, what is it, April, dear?"
She could not speak. She shook her head, tried desperately to make a sign that she was all right, that she would rather be left alone; but it was no use. She felt too bitterly the need for human sympathy. She turned, flung her arms about her mother's neck, and began to sob and sob.
"Oh, mother, mother," she cried. "I'm so miserable. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do."
Next morning Dr Dunkin felt her pulse, prescribed a tonic and told her not to stay too much indoors.
"Now, you'll be all right, dear," her mother said. "Dr Dunkin's medicines are splendid."
April smiled quietly. "Yes, I expect that was what was wanted. I think I worked a little too hard last term."
"I'm sure you did, my dear. I shall write to Mrs Clarke about it. I can't have my little girl getting run down."
And that afternoon April met Roland in the High Street. It was the first time that she had seen him alone since the evening of the dance, and she found him awkward and embarrassed. They said a few things of no importance—about the holidays, the weather and their acquaintances. Then April said that she must be going home, and Roland made no effort to detain her—did not even make any suggestion about coming round to see her.