She had removed to a lodging in Bernard Street, Bloomsbury, and in the fusty sitting-room she sat all day, lonely and miserable, reviewing the blunder of her life. She neither wrote nor read—her writing was an idea she hated now; she merely thought—wishing she could recall the past, wondering how she could bear the future. One afternoon when she sat there, pale and heavy-eyed, the maid-of-all-work announced a visitor, and Mrs. Baines came in.
Mamie rose nervously, and the other advanced. She had rehearsed an interview which should be a compromise between the instructions that had been given her by her brother, and the attitude of righteous rebuke that she felt to be a permissible luxury, but the forlornness of the figure before her drove her opening sentence from her head. All she could utter was the girl's name; and then there was a pause in which they looked at each other.
"It is kind of you to come," Mamie murmured.
"I hope you're well?" said Mrs. Baines.
"Not very. I——Won't you sit down?"
"I never thought I should see you like this, Mamie!" said the widow half involuntarily, shaking her head.
The girl made no answer in words. She caught her breath, and stood passive. If the lash fell she would suffer silently.
"We always see sin punished, though." She believed we always did; she retained such startling optimism. "It's not for me to reproach you."
"Thank you. I'm not too happy, Aunt Lydia."
"I daresay, my dear. I haven't come to make it worse for you."