Theresa gave her chuckling laugh and hugged her knees.
"Am I horrid? Are you like that?"
"No; I think it makes me rather sick. But, then, I'm a queer person."
"I'm glad you don't think it's wrong of me. I'm frightened of myself sometimes."
"I'm sure you needn't be," Theresa said cheerfully, but she was anxious. Grace, with her beauty and the warm, swift blood flushing her cheeks, seemed to her the very embodiment of life, and she feared its impulse. Her own knowledge had the vagueness of inexperience, and it was the more alarming, so she watched Grace jealously, and knew something of the cares of parenthood.
Some weeks later, on a cold and windy evening in March, she walked home very quickly from Mr. Partiloe's office. She held her head high, but for once she was unobservant of how the chestnut trees were swelling into black, shining buds, and how the sound of her feet on the pavement had the ring of spring-time in it, and the birds were giving out shrill notes of joy. She went to her room, flung her hat on the bed and ran her fingers through her hair.
"I never go to that man's office again," she said to Grace, who was sitting on the window-sill with hands loosely clasped in her lap, and a tender smile on her lips.
"What's the matter?"
"I've left." She flounced on to the bed, expectant of more questions, but none came, for Grace was gazing straight into heaven.
"I've left," she repeated. "Mr. Jessop nearly cried, and so did I; but I've asked him to come to tea on Sunday and bring his sister and as many cats as they like. Grace, do you hear?"