Duplessis had called two days after her arrival, but she had been out, and he had not waited. He came again after three days’ interval—having written to announce his intention—at 11 o’clock in the morning. She was on her knees, in pinned-up skirt and apron, her arms bare to the elbows, scrubbing the kitchen floor, when his knock resounded through the house. The quick blood leapt into her cheeks, but she held to her task. Her mother came fluttering in. “That’s your visitor, Mary. What am I to do?—and you in such a state!”
“Show him in here, Mother,” says Mary.
“Never, child. He’ll think you demented.”
Mary was inflexible; her eyes glittered. “I shall see him nowhere else,” she said.
Upon his second attack, a scared and serious Mrs. Middleham opened the door. Mary, pausing in her scrubbing, heard the dialogue.
“Oh, good-morning. Mrs. Germain?”
“My daughter is here, Sir.”
“Oh, she’s come, has she? Do you think she would see me?”
“She says so, Sir. I have asked her. But she hopes you will excuse her untidiness——”
“Oh, of course——”