"Oh, has he gone?" she cried, starting to her feet, and she pushed back the hair from her face. "Has Simon gone?"
The very possibility that her husband already had started for the city, in view of her resolution, seemed to her a tragedy.
Emily, after a short, sharp inspection of her, laid a pile of freshly-ironed linen on a chair.
"Yes," she answered, "he knocked at your door, but you gave no sign and he didn't like to disturb you. Peter was slow harnessing and Mr. Hart was afraid he wouldn't make the train, but he must have made it or he'd be back by now. It is after eight o'clock."
Rachel sank into her chair with huddled knees. She looked as if she never intended to move again.
Emily took her wrist. "Wouldn't you like your coffee here?"
Rachel looked up at her stupidly.
Emily repeated the question; she even broke into scolding as she brought a loose gown to the other and insisted on her removing her dress. But once outside the door, Emily extended both hands as if appealing to a protective Providence. "A nice state of things!" she muttered, with an expression of mingled pain, indignation and perfect comprehension.
But when she appeared with the breakfast tray a few moments later she was as stern of aspect as before. After shaking out a table-cloth, she placed the tray on a little stand at Rachel's elbow.
But Rachel turned away. With her head propped on her two hands, she stared in front of her; and nothing Emily could say served to draw her from this state.