“Do you mean she has gone?”
“As far as the barn. She wouldn't stay in the house. I—I'll take you out there, if you would like to see her.”
K. shrewdly surmised that Tillie would prefer to see him alone, under the circumstances.
“I guess I can find her,” he said, and rose from the little table.
“If you—if you can say anything to help me out, sir, I'd appreciate it. Of course, she understands how I am driven. But—especially if you would tell her that the Street doesn't know—”
“I'll do all I can,” K. promised, and followed the path to the barn.
Tillie received him with a certain dignity. The little harness-room was very comfortable. A white iron bed in a corner, a flat table with a mirror above it, a rocking-chair, and a sewing-machine furnished the room.
“I wouldn't stand for it,” she said simply; “so here I am. Come in, Mr. Le Moyne.”
There being but one chair, she sat on the bed. The room was littered with small garments in the making. She made no attempt to conceal them; rather, she pointed to them with pride.
“I am making them myself. I have a lot of time these days. He's got a hired girl at the house. It was hard enough to sew at first, with me making two right sleeves almost every time.” Then, seeing his kindly eye on her: “Well, it's happened, Mr. Le Moyne. What am I going to do? What am I going to be?”