She was disappointed; that was plain. I thought for the moment that she was going to break down again. But she did not; she controlled her feelings and faced me firmly and pluckily.
“At nine—no, at ten to-morrow, then,” she said. “I shall expect your final answer then.”
“Very well.”
“You will come? Of course; I am forgetting. You said you would.”
“We will be here at ten. Here is my address.”
I gave her my card, scribbling the street and number of Bancroft's in pencil in the corner. She took the card.
“Thank you. Good afternoon,” she said.
I said “Good afternoon” and opened the door. The hall outside was empty, but someone was descending the stairs in a great hurry. I descended also. At the top step I glanced once more into the room I had just left. Frances Strickland Morley—Little Frank—was seated in the chair, one hand before her eyes. Her attitude expressed complete weariness and utter collapse. She had said she was not sick, but she looked sick—she did indeed.
Harriet, the slouchy maid, was not in evidence, so I opened the street door for myself. As I reached the sidewalk—I suppose, as this was England, I should call it the “pavement”—I was accosted by Mrs. Briggs. She was out of breath; I am quite sure she had reached that pavement but the moment before.
“'Ow is she?” demanded Mrs. Briggs.