"Gertrude! What are you doing?" The voice was Delia's. She stood on the threshold of Gertrude's den, looking with amazement, at the littered room and the packing-cases.
"I find I must go up at once—They want help at the office." Gertrude, who was writing a letter, delivered the information over her shoulder.
"But the flat won't be ready!"
"Never mind. I can go to a hotel for a few days."
A cloud dropped over the radiance of Delia's face, fresh from the sun and frost outside.
"I can't bear your going alone!"
"Oh, you'll come later," said Gertrude indifferently.
"Did you—did you—have such urgent letters this morning?"
"Well—you know things are urgent! But then, you see, you have made up your mind to stay with Weston!"
A slight mocking look accompanied the words.