"Doing nothing. And Elbert, the footman, will come in with the tea and take it away again; and you'll say, Elbert'—mustn't say 'Elbert dear'—you'll say, 'Elbert, just bring me my glass of hot water at ten o'clock.' And he'll say, 'Yes, me lady.' No, he won't. He'll say, 'Yes, meddam ... quite.... Yes, meddam.' That's what he'll say. Lick your shoes, he will, because you're rich."
"Rich!" sighed Mrs. Minto. "Who's to make me rich?"
"I'm going to make us all rich," explained Sally. "You mark my words and wait and see."
"I wouldn't mind not being rich," Mrs. Minto said, "if it wasn't that my poor 'ed...."
"O-oh!" cried Sally, in wrath. Her mood was crushed by this inexorable return to the subject she had been chattering to avert. "Give your old head a rest, ma. Here, come out for a walk with me."
"You're not to go out, Sally. Mrs. Roberson says...."
"That for Mrs. Roberson," said Sally, already on her feet. "You don't suppose I'm going to stick in here and get frozen stiff. There's nothing to do indoors. I got no sewing. Only makes me fret if I stay at home. I'm going to see Mrs. Perce...."
She moved hastily to the door, and closed it quietly after her, for she had heard below her the shutting of the front door, and she thought it might be Toby at last. It was nearly a quarter to seven. Her guess had been right. It was he. Seeming not to have heard him, she ran lightly down the stairs as he heavily mounted them. Her heart was thumping so that she felt quite sick and faint. She could no longer run, but could only totter down towards the inevitable confrontation. It was there, and it was past—a plain, boorish "Evening." She managed the rest of the flight at a run; but when she was out of doors Sally turned to the darkness and could no longer restrain her tears of anguish. This was the end of her day. Laugh in the morning, cry before night. That was the truest proverb that ever was made. She was heartbroken.
xv
There was no question of seeing May or calling upon Mrs. Perce. Sally was beaten. She was full of expostulations and arguments, but all were addressed to Toby, and she could not have borne any other society. So she wandered about the streets for an hour, miserably aware that once or twice she was followed by an aimless strolling youth who did not know how to occupy a lonely evening and who yet was too much of a coward to address her. In her mind she went over every detail of her friendship with Toby. It had become suddenly unreal, like a thing that had happened years before. And yet the throb of pain belonging to her sense of his cruelty was immediate. Every detail was clear to her; and the whole was blurred. He was a stranger; and yet his presence would at once have given life to her memories. They had been written, as it were, in invisible ink, which needed only the warmth of a fire to produce their message vividly once again. Sally sobbed from time to time; but she was no longer crying. Her pain was too deep to be relieved by tears, which with her were the result of weakness, since she was not naturally liquid. And as the memory was exhausted in its evocation she began to think as of old. Her quick brain was recovering its sway. She was no longer an overwrought child. And yet when she strove to plan a discomfiture for Toby, who had so wickedly hurt her, she shrank from that also; so it was still a restless and undetermined Sally who returned home to find her mother dozing by the feeble warmth of a dying fire.