"I shall get him a nice breakfast to-morrow," she said, also in a whisper. "And as soon as he's gone to the office I shall pack. It won't take me long, really."
"But won't Mrs. Lobley be here?"
"What if she is? I've nothing against Mrs. Lobley. Nor, as far as that goes, against poor father either—you see what I mean."
"He told me you'd had a terrible scene. That's what he said'—a terrible scene."
"It depends what you call a scene," she said smoothly. "I was rather upset just at first—who wouldn't be?—but ..." She stopped, listening, with a glance at the ceiling. There was not the slightest sound overhead. "I wonder what he's doing?"
She picked up the tray.
"I'll carry that," said George.
"No! It's all right. I'm used to it. You might bring me the tablecloth. But you won't drop the crumbs out of it, will you?"
He followed her with the bunched-up tablecloth down the dangerous basement steps into the kitchen. She passed straight into the little scullery, where the tray with its contents was habitually left for the attention of Mrs. Lobley the next morning. When she turned again, he halted her, as it were, at the entrance from the scullery with a question.
"Shall you be all right?"