Irene was indeed oddly white-faced and jerky. Her manner was as unnatural as was her sudden volubility.
Elsie, still feeling weak and giddy, leant her head back and closed her eyes. She felt quite unable to make the effort of remembering what had happened at the clairvoyante’s house, and was moreover instinctively aware that the recollection, when it did come, would bring dismay and terror.
She and Irene Tidmarsh did not exchange a word until the taxi stopped.
“Here we are. You’d better pay him, Elsie. I’ll take the Tube from the corner, and get home in half an hour.”
“Aren’t you coming in with me?” said Elsie, surprised.
“I don’t think I will. I’d rather get straight home.”
“Oh, do!” urged Elsie, half crying. She felt very much shaken. “I’m all alone; Horace won’t be back till seven, and this has upset me properly. Besides, I know I shall remember what it was that awful woman said in a minute, and I’m frightened. You must come in, Ireen.”
“I can’t,” repeated Irene, inexorably. “I ... really, I’d rather not, Elsie.”
The door opened, and Irene turned rapidly and walked away down the street.
Elsie tottered into the house.