“Listen!” cried Elsie.
In the second during which he turned, arrested, she slipped out of the room.
Her heart was beating very fast, and her face burning.
She half expected him to follow her, but he did not do so; and she was partly relieved and partly disappointed.
She saw him again at supper, which the Woolleys always called dinner, and the consciousness between them caused a singular constraint to pervade the atmosphere. Mrs. Woolley, for the first time, seemed to be aware of it, and every now and then turned sharp, bulging brown eyes from her husband to Elsie, compressing her thin lips until they formed a mere hard line in her red face.
When the meal was finished, she told Elsie to go upstairs and fetch one of her evening dresses. “I want to see if I can’t smarten it up a bit,” she explained. “I’m in rags, not fit to be seen.”
“I’ll stand you a new frock, Amy,” said the doctor suddenly. “How much d’you want, eh?”
“Oh! Why, whatever’s up, Herbert? I’m sure it’s ages since I’ve had a thing, and I’d be only too delighted——”
She broke off.
“Run up, Elsie, will you? The primrose dress, with the black lace, in the left-hand corner of my wardrobe....”