That night they slept together.
The morning pierced through a soaking white mist, a day typical of Cornwall in the autumn.
Miss Blandflower came down looking harassed and haggard, and announced that she had toothache. Breakfast proceeded as usual, and Rosamund found it quite impossible to realize that in a few hours Frances would be gone.
But the morning sped by, swift and yet leaden. At midday Miss Blandflower put on galoshes and a mackintosh and set off for the Rectory, valiantly suppressing a hinted inclination to “give in” to her increasing toothache, and remain seated over the fire, and as she went down the drive Frances said gently:
“I shall want a waterproof. I’ve only got my blue serge coat and skirt and my brown hat to travel in.”
“Put on thick shoes,” said Rosamund urgently, as though she had no other preoccupation.
When Frances stood ready, looking pale and childish, and grasping her little leather case, Rosamund pulled down a thick Irish frieze cape from the hall and flung it round her own shoulders.
“I’m coming as far as the road with you,” she said in an inward voice.
Dumbly they went together down the steps and across the gravelled court. The thick mist seemed to swallow them up, and Frances put her hand into Rosamund’s.
Outside the drive gate they stopped. It was the high-road which lay outside, and down which the farm carts and pony traps would pass on their way to market.