Inside the room with the door locked, and Milly in her old accustomed chair, Jane laid off her things and looked about her fondly. She threw open the windows to let in the air and sun. She dusted, sat down at her desk, filled her pen, and drew the old notebook to her.
For a while she did not write, she just sat and contemplated. It seemed years instead of months since she belonged here, in this cool, white, impersonal place. She had grown used to warm harmonies of colour in her surroundings, but it seemed to her that she could never create there, she needed this space, and peace. For days she had felt the urge to write, and the thought of this haven of hers had been always in her mind.
She had not told Jerry of her determination to retain her old room. It needed so much explanation, so much self-revelation, which she was not prepared to give him yet, nor he to accept. Meanwhile, when he was busy with his great ladies, she could slip away to her own work.
She drew the page nearer and began to write.... It seemed five minutes later that Mrs. Biggs knocked at the door.
"One o'clock," she called.
"Oh, is it? Thank you," answered Jane, like one coming out of a trance. In ten minutes she had locked her door, hurried away, elate, happy. Mrs. Brendon had departed, carrying Jerry off to lunch. They had left a note for her. She was glad to be alone, and she hummed softly as she laid out her slight meal. Bobs came in.
"All alone? Where's Jerry?"
"Gone to lunch with Mrs. Abercrombie Brendon."
"Jane, don't you let him do it. I tell you, it is the beginning of the end for you, if you let him go about with these women alone," she said hotly.
"They would have asked me, if I had been here. I was out."