"I think he said he was lunching with the Crichells."
"No, he's not. Crichell went to Birmingham yesterday about his one-man show."
"Did he?" she said indifferently. "I wasn't really listening. Tell Jessie to call me at twelve, will you? I lose track of time," she added apologetically, "when I'm shut away up here."
The young man went out, and she settled down again to her work. The holidays were nearly over, and her book was approaching its end.
"I do hope," she said, as Jessie called her and she went down to dress for going to fetch Caroline Breeze, "I do hope it'll be good."
The house was very quiet. It struck her as she went downstairs, with her jacket and hat on, that it was quieter than a house ought to be with two young people living in it. She longed suddenly for Guy—her naughty boy. He was troublesome, but he was pleasantly noisy, and though he had no voice like Paul, she liked hearing him sing, and even whistle, as he went up and down the stairs, and his untidy hats and gloves in the hall looked friendly and hearty somehow.
She met Miss Breeze as she turned off Albany Street, and they walked back together.
"I've seen nothing of you lately," Miss Breeze complained pleasantly. "I was thinking in church this morning—during the sermon that is—that I should be glad when the holidays are over."
"It's more my book than the holidays. Oh, Caroline, I'm so worried about it."