She dressed herself silently before the mirror, looking out through the window at the grey river-fog that fell gloomily across the water and Janet lay in bed, her hands crossed behind her head, a cigarette hanging between her lips and the smoke curling up past her eyes. The school of Art did not open until eleven o'clock that morning. Sally had to be at the office at nine.
"There'll be a fog up in Town," said Janet. She did not take the cigarette out of her mouth. It jerked up and down with the words.
"Sure to be," Sally replied.
"Suppose Mr. Traill will come and take you out to lunch?"
Sally turned quickly. "I told you last night," she said bitterly. "We shan't see each—"
"Oh yes, I know that. But do you think he means it?"
"I'm sure he does."
"I'm not."
Sally unpinned a coil of her hair and re-arranged it more carefully, unconscious that she did it because Janet had suggested the vague hope in her mind that he might come.
"Why are you so different this morning?" she asked.