The fear began to haunt her that she would not have enough money in hand to pay the expenses of her approaching illness. Sometimes she threw fear down and trampled on it; but other times it overcame her, swept her off her feet, engulfed her. Lest she should succumb entirely and ignobly she would wrench herself free, and, hastening out of doors, spend the remainder of the day wandering, resting sometimes in the Abbey, sometimes in the Brompton Oratory, seeking always a scene of peace and beauty.
One day her breezy landlady approached her, using all the tact and kindness she had command of, yet taking the girl cruelly unawares.
"My dear," she said pleasantly, "I hope you have found a place to go to when your time comes?"
Poppy sat paling and reddening before her, speechless with confusion.
"Ah, my dear, you needn't mind me," said Miss Drake kindly. "I've lived among 'theatricals' all my days, and I know what life is for a lovely girl like you—and I can see you're a good girl, too!"
Poppy got up and walked away to the window, so unnerved she knew not what to do or say. The kind woman's words threw her into a state of misery. She had no idea that her secret was shared by others yet.
"What I wanted to say, dear," continued Miss Drake, "was, that if you haven't made your arrangements, you ought to do so at once: because it would be very inconvenient if anything happened here. You can see yourself, dear, the kind of house this is, full of quiet business people, who wouldn't like things to be upset—a doctor coming and going on the stairs and a nurse and all that fuss, you know. So, much as I shall regret losing you——"
"Oh, don't say anything more, Miss Drake," Poppy interposed hastily. "Of course, I shall go—I am going quite soon; I haven't made up my mind where, but I will do so at once—I'll find out as soon as I can——"
"Yes, yes, of course—don't worry; don't upset yourself, dear—Butterton's Weekly is a good paper to find a nursing home in, if you haven't the address of any woman. But there! I expect you will get along all right."
The moment she had gone Poppy flew out to the nearest paper-shop, bought a Butterton's Weekly, and brought it home for deep study. It is an odious paper. When she had read a few of its advertisements, nausea seized her. Was she one of the army of these asking for secret and confidential homes? And were these homes offered by discreet nurses who could get the baby adopted if desired, meant for people like her? Again shame flushed her, flooded her. She crushed the paper into a ball, hid it, and went out for the whole day. But when she came in she uncrushed it, and read in it again with dull eyes.