“She’s free enough for it,” returned Harriet, in a vexed tone. “I told her she might come yesterday, Miss Tottams, my lady permitting it, but I did not tell her she might come to-day.”
I glanced at Roger. His knife and fork shook in his hands; his face wore the hue of the grave. I was little less agitated than he.
Another respite. It was only a parcel from the railway-station, which had been delayed in the delivery. And the dinner went on.
And the evening went on too, as the past one went on—undisturbed. Later, when some of us were playing at snap-dragon in the little breakfast-room, Harriet came in to march Miss Tottams off to bed.
“Your sister did not come after all, did she, Harriet?” said Mary.
“No, Miss Mary. She’s gone back to London,” continued Harriet, after a pause. “Not enough life for her, I dare say, down here.”
Roger glanced round. He did not dare ask whether Harriet knew she was gone back, or only supposed it.
Mary laughed. “Fond of life, is she?”
“She always was, Miss Mary. She is married to a gentleman. At least, that is her account of him: he is a medical man, she says. But it may be he is only a medical man’s assistant.”