Her reply was just her look of despair.
“What can I do!” She might as well have said it out. It was so clear between them that his answering her with words seemed quite natural.
“Can I do anything?”
She looked away from him to that glittering spot where the sun struck the sea.
Why, there was only one thing any one could do, so elemental that it took this sharp necessity to make it possible. She saw now. It was, all along, the only thing she could have done.
She turned back to Thair, whose last question hung, waiting her answer.
“No, nothing—you’re good—not now—except let me go back alone!”
She ran. From the moment he had confounded her she had dropped all consideration of appearances. On the stair she passed a maid, her arms heaped with newly ironed linen and delicate flowered fabrics—frocks Julia had worn about the house. Then she must be packing. She would be in her room. Half-way down the upper hall, Florence heard the rushing approach of sweeping silk. She stopped, almost opposite her own door, and waited. Julia came down the hall, headlong even when walking. She saw Florence not until she was upon her. She started, drew herself together, made to go on, hesitated.
“Can I do anything?” she said. Her voice gave the commonplace sharp significance, as though her very self depended on the “anything” she could do.
“Yes,” Florence said, holding open her door. “Come in.”