Barfoot did not call again. Every evening she sat in expectation of his coming. Twice Miss Barfoot was away until a late hour, and on those occasions, after dinner, Rhoda sat in complete idleness, her face declaring the troubled nature of her thoughts. On the Sunday before her departure she took a sudden resolve and went to call upon Monica at Herne Hill.
Mrs. Widdowson, she learnt from the servant, had left home about an hour since.
“Is Mr. Widdowson at home?”
Yes, he was. And Rhoda waited for some time in the drawing-room until he made his appearance. Of late Widdowson had grown so careless in the matter of toilet, that an unexpected visit obliged him to hurry through a change of apparel before he could present himself. Looking upon him for the first time for several months, Rhoda saw that misery was undermining the man’s health. Words could not have declared his trouble more plainly than the haggard features and stiff, depressed, self-conscious manner. He fixed his sunken eyes upon the visitor, and smiled, as was plain, only for civility’s sake. Rhoda did her best to seem at ease; she explained (standing, for he forgot to ask her to be seated) that she was going away on the morrow, and had hoped to see Mrs. Widdowson, who, she was told, had not been very well of late.
“No, she is not in very good health,” said Widdowson vaguely. “She has gone this afternoon to Mrs. Cosgrove’s—I think you know her.”
Less encouragement to remain could not have been offered, but Rhoda conceived a hope of hearing something significant if she persevered in conversation. The awkwardness of doing so was indifferent to her.
“Shall you be leaving town shortly, Mr. Widdowson?”
“We are not quite sure—But pray sit down, Miss Nunn. You haven’t seen my wife lately?”
He took a chair, and rested his hands upon his knees, gazing at the visitor’s skirt.
“Mrs. Widdowson hasn’t been to see us for more than a month—if I remember rightly.”