It was late in the morning when she awoke in response to a persistent knocking at the door, on the opening of which she found a bare-armed country-girl who informed her without preamble that the gentleman was waiting breakfast for her downstairs. Having delivered this message, she retired, and Frances was left to perform what toilet she could with the very limited means at her command.
Her long sleep had refreshed her and she reflected with relief that her strength was certainly returning. The thought of meeting Montague Rotherby gave her no dismay. Very strangely he had ceased to possess any very great importance in her eyes, her only determination being to break off all connection with him as soon as possible.
Somehow, as she entered the room where he awaited her, she had a feeling that he had never really mattered very greatly in her life. It was only what he had stood for—the realization of that part of her being which had lain dormant for so long, the throbbing certainty that for her also even the stones of the wilderness might be turned into bread.
She came forward to him, faintly smiling. “Are you better to-day?” she said.
She did not offer her hand, but he took it. His face twitched a little at her matter-of-fact greeting. She saw at a glance that he looked ill.
“I’ve had a foul night,” he said. “But it’s not serious. I’m going up to town. Will you come with me?”
She looked at him, startled. “Oh, no!” she said.
He bit his lip. “Are you still disliking me?” he said.
It was a difficult question to answer, so little did he seem to matter now. She replied after a moment without any conscious feeling of any sort.
“No. But I am not coming up to town with you. Is there any particular reason why I should? You are quite able to go alone, I suppose?”