“She wasn’t in.”
Here was a blow for Mrs. Baines, whose suspicions about Sophia, driven off by her certainties regarding Constance, suddenly sprang forward in her mind, and prowled to and fro like a band of tigers.
Still, Mrs. Baines was determined to be calm and careful. “Oh! What time did you call?”
“I don’t know. About half-past four.” Sophia finished her tea quickly, and rose. “Shall I tell Mr. Povey he can come?”
(Mr. Povey had his tea after the ladies of the house.)
“Yes, if you will stay in the shop till I come. Light me the gas before you go.”
Sophia took a wax taper from a vase on the mantelpiece, stuck it in the fire and lit the gas, which exploded in its crystal cloister with a mild report.
“What’s all that clay on your boots, child?” asked Mrs. Baines.
“Clay?” repeated Sophia, staring foolishly at her boots.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Baines. “It looks like marl. Where on earth have you been?”