When he woke up, he came in search of her, and laughed over his involuntary nap.
“Well, now, you will go and see your sister to-morrow morning.”
“In the afternoon, I think.”
“Why? Don’t let us have any procrastination. The morning, the morning!”
“Please do let me have my way in such a trifle as that,” Monica exclaimed nervously. “I have all sorts of things to see to here before I can go out.”
He caressed her.
“You shan’t say that I am unreasonable. In the afternoon, then. And don’t listen to any objections.”
“No, no.”
* * * * * * * * * *
It was Friday. All the morning Widdowson had business with house agents and furniture removers, for he would not let a day go by without some practical step towards release from the life he detested. Monica seemed to be equally active in her own department; she was turning out drawers and wardrobes, and making selection of things—on some principle understood by herself. A flush remained upon her cheeks, in marked contrast to the pallor which for a long time had given her an appearance of wasting away. That and her singularly bright eyes endowed her with beauty suggestive of what she might have gained in happy marriage.