"To look up trains in."
"Why—is anybody coming?"
"Does anybody ever come?"
Mary's face admitted her absurdity.
"Then"—she made it out almost with difficulty—"somebody must be going away."
"How clever you are. Somebody is going away."
Mary twisted her brows in her perplexity. She was evidently thinking things.
"Do you mean—Steven Rowcliffe?"
"No, dear lamb." (What on earth had put Steven Rowcliffe into Mary's head?) "It's not as bad as all that. It's only a woman. In fact, it's only me."
Mary's face emptied itself of all expression; it became a blank screen suddenly put up before the disarray of hurrying, eager things, unclothed and unexpressed.