“Francie!”
“Don’t,” said Frances, her voice quivering for the first time. “It’s the only way I can ever do it, I’m such a moral coward. And it’s far better to do it all quickly than to have a long waiting first—that would be much harder for both of us, Rosamund. At first I thought I wouldn’t even tell you, so that you wouldn’t have to say good-bye or anything sad—but then I couldn’t help it. I knew you’d understand.”
“I understand,” said Rosamund drearily, conscious only that she must not make it harder for Frances. “But have you thought at all how you’re going to do it?”
A sense of unreality rushed upon her.
“To-morrow! It’s impossible—you can’t do it.”
“I’ve looked up the trains and everything,” said Frances literally. “I can take the one o’clock train, and you must send my box after me. I can’t take it because the servants would know—but by the time Cousin Bertie is back, everybody will know, and it won’t matter.”
“You can’t arrive there with nothing at all,” said Rosamund, her mind refusing to take in any but the immediate practical issues of the case.
“I shall carry my little tiny attaché case, and if I start early I’m certain to meet someone or other who will give me a lift to the station. It’s market day, you know.”
“You’ve never even travelled alone,” began Rosamund conscious of futility.
“But I can’t possibly make any mistake. It’s a through train to London, and then I shall take a cab to Liverpool Street Station and go on from there. It’s not a very long journey if I get a good train.”