"Now, go out of the shed door. Go—don't let them see you!"
Billy was gone, forgetting even to mention the letter lying on the living-room table.
Then Joyce waited. Out in front, they two—Miss Drew and that girl—seemed rooted to the spot near the baby's grave.
Feeling had departed from Joyce—she simply waited.
Finally they, outside, turned. They walked directly to the house, and knocked. They knocked again.
"It's etiquette to go in, if the house is empty." It was Constance Drew's voice. "St. Angé and New York have different ideas. Leave things as you find them, that's the only social commandment here." A hand was on the latch.
"Connie, I cannot! It does not seem decent." That voice sank deep into the listening heart behind the barrier.
"Well, then, I'll write her a letter. I'm sorry I asked Jock Filmer to take a verbal invitation. She might think—"
"That's better, Connie, and while you and Ralph drive over to Hillcrest this afternoon, I'll bring it here; perhaps she will be at home then."
Joyce heard them turn. She watched them until the pine trees hid them; then her heart beat feebly.