Over the listener’s face came a cloud, a deep, turbid red. It was not anger, but shame which rose from the depths of her being. Her head sank; she turned and walked aside.
‘You’re not angry with me, Emma?’
‘Not angry at all, Alice,’ was the reply in a monotone.
‘I must say good-bye now. I hope you won t take on much. And I hope Jane ‘ll soon be better.’
‘Thank you. I must go up to her; she doesn’t like me to be away long.’
Alice went before up the kitchen stairs, the dark, narrow stairs which now seemed to her so poverty-stricken. Emma did not speak, but pressed her hand at the door.
Kate stood above her on the first landing, and, as Emma came up, whispered:
‘Has he come?’
‘Something has hindered him.’ And Emma added, ‘He couldn’t help it.’
‘Well, then, I think he ought to have helped it,’ said the other tartly. ‘When does he mean to come, I’d like to know?’