She was still looking at it when she heard the expected wheels; she stuffed the letter back into her pocket, then remembering the photograph, pulled the letter out again and put it into it. She was putting the letter away for the second time when Christopher came in, and in her guilty self-consciousness she felt that he must have noticed the action.
“How did you get in so quickly?” she said, with a confusion that heightened the general effect of discovery.
“Donovan was there and took the trap,” said Christopher, “and the hall door was open, so I came in.”
He sat down, and neither seemed certain for a moment as to what to say next.
“I didn’t really expect you to come, Mr. Dysart,” began Francie, the colour that the difficulty with the photograph had given her ebbing slowly away; “you have a right to be tired as well as us, and Charlotte being upset that way and all, made it awfully late before you got home, I’m afraid.”
“I met her a few minutes ago, and was glad to see that she was all right again,” said Christopher perfunctorily; “but certainly if I had been she, and had had any option in the matter, I should have stayed at home this morning.”
Both felt the awkwardness of discussing Miss Mullen, but it seemed a shade less than the awkwardness of ignoring her.
“She was such a friend of poor Mrs. Lambert’s,” said Francie; “and I declare,” she added, glad of even this trivial chance of showing herself antagonistic to Charlotte, “I think she delights in funerals.”
“She has a peculiar way of showing her delight,” replied Christopher, with just enough ill-nature to make Francie feel that her antagonism was understood and sympathised with.
Francie gave an irrepressible laugh. “I don’t think she minds crying before people. I wish everyone minded crying as little as she does.”