Mrs. Baines in her turn also sank down on to the sofa.
“I’ve not been ill,” she said. “And Constance hasn’t written for a week! Only yesterday I was telling her—”
“Sister—it can’t be! Sophia had letters from Constance every morning. At least she said they were from Constance. I told her to be sure and write me how you were last night, and she promised faithfully she would. And it was because I got nothing by this morning’s post that I decided to come over myself, to see if it was anything serious.”
“Serious it is!” murmured Mrs. Baines.
“What—”
“Sophia’s run off. That’s the plain English of it!” said Mrs. Baines with frigid calm.
“Nay! That I’ll never believe. I’ve looked after Sophia night and day as if she was my own, and—”
“If she hasn’t run off, where is she?”
Mrs. Maddack opened the door with a tragic gesture.
“Bladen,” she called in a loud voice to the driver of the waggonette, who was standing on the pavement.