‘Now what,’ Mrs. Luke asked herself, pressing her cold hands together, when an hour or two later it became evident beyond doubt that Sally hadn’t merely gone, unaccountably, for an early walk, but had gone altogether, ‘now what, what have I done to deserve this?’
And the period of torment began, the period of distress and anxiety, of anger at first which soon flickered out, and of ever-growing, sickening fear, which she afterwards spoke of quietly as a mauvais quart d’heure.
It took some time before she and Jocelyn could be convinced that this wasn’t just a before breakfast walk. They clung to the hope that it was, in spite of their knowledge of Sally’s lack of initiative. Yet how much more initiative would be needed, they thought, looking at each other with frightened eyes, to do that which it became every moment more and more apparent that she had done.
‘But why? But why?’ Mrs. Luke kept on asking, pressing her cold hands together.
Jocelyn said nothing.
At eleven o’clock, when it was plain she wasn’t coming back, he went out and fetched his car.
‘She’s gone to her father,’ he said.
‘But why? Oh, Jocelyn—why?’
‘We’ve made her unhappy,’ he said, pulling on his gloves, his face set.
‘Unhappy?’