“M-m-m!” she murmured, commencing to climb.
Under the skylight a caged bird was singing shrilly.
As much to listen, as to brush something to her cheeks, Miss Sinquier paused.
If a microscopic mirror could be relied upon she had seldom looked so well.
Scrambling up the remaining stairs with alacrity, she knocked.
A maid with her head wreathed in curl-papers answered the door, surveying the visitor first through a muslin blind.
Miss Sinquier pulled out a card.
“Is Mrs. Bromley in?” she asked.
The woman gazed at her feet.
“Mrs. Bromley’s gone!” she replied.