Mrs. Allanby was silent for a while, struggling with her profound disappointment. At last, with a long, inward sigh:
“He might have done worse!” she said to herself, and held out her hand to Rosaleen with a charming smile.
III
Rosaleen went down the steps of the house with a strange feeling of coldness. A hard, scheming woman, that’s what she was, determined to use whatever advantage a niggardly fate had given her. Not a loving or tender thought was in her head, nothing but her odious triumph.
She reached the street and was half-way along the block when she saw him coming. She knew him, even in the dark, his heavy, vehement stride, the soft hat pulled so low over his eyes, the unbuttoned overcoat swaying from his big shoulders. And her frigidity suddenly melted, gave place to a sort of alarm. She wanted to hide, to avoid him, an impossible desire in that decorous and deserted street. There was nothing to do but to advance. She came abreast of him, but he didn’t turn his head. It never occurred to him that Rosaleen could be here, near his own home, at this hour. It was simply a woman passerby. He went on.... And suddenly heard her running after him.
“Mr. Landry,” she cried, with a little laugh. “Don’t you know me?”
He wheeled about, startled.
“I didn’t expect you to be here,” he said. “I’ve just come from your sister’s. I waited there.... I wanted to see you.”
“Yes,” she said, “and I wanted to see you. I’ve been having a talk with your aunt.”
“What about?” he asked, hastily.