Helen held her head high and countered silence with silence. But before she reached her room she heard Mrs. Campbell's voice, high-pitched and cutting, speaking to her husband.
"Brazen as you please! You're right. The only thing to do's to put her out of this house before we have a scandal on our hands. That's what I get for taking her in, out of charity!"
Helen shut her door softly. She would leave the house that very day. The battered alarm clock pointed to half-past five. Three hours before she could do anything. She undressed mechanically, half-formed plans rushing through her mind. No money, next month's wages spent for these crumpled clothes. She could telegraph her mother, but she must not alarm her. Why hadn't she thought of borrowing something from Paul? There was Mr. Roberts, but she could never make up more money. Perhaps he would advance the raise he had promised. Her brain was working with hectic rapidity. She saw in flashes rooming-houses, the office, Mr. Roberts. She thought out every detail of long conversations, heard her own voice explaining, arguing, promising, thanking.
CHAPTER VII
She woke with a start at the sound of the alarm. Her sleep had not refreshed her. Her body felt wooden, and there was a gritty sensation behind her eyeballs. Dressing and hurrying to the office was like a nightmare in which a tremendous effort accomplishes nothing. The office routine steadied her. She booked the night messages, laying wet tissue paper over them, running them through the copying-machine, addressing their envelopes, sending out messenger-boys, settling their disputes over long routes. Everything was as usual; the sunshine streamed in through the plate-glass front of the office; customers came and went; the telephone rang; the instruments clicked. Her holiday was gone as if she had dreamed it. There remained only the recurring sting of Mrs. Campbell's words, and a determination to leave her house.
She tried several times to talk to Mr. Roberts. But he was in a black mood. He walked past her without saying good-morning, and over the question of a delayed message his voice snapped like a whip-lash. She saw that some obscure fury was working in him and that he would grant no favors until it had worn itself out. Perhaps he would be in a better humor later. She must ask him for some money before night.
In the lull just before noon she sat at her table behind the screen, her head on her arms. She did not feel like working at the instrument. Mr. McCormick was lounging against the front counter, talking to Mr. Roberts, who sat at his desk. They would take care of any customers; for a moment she could rest and try to think.
"Miss Davies!"
"Yes, sir!" She leaped to her feet. Mr. Roberts' tone was dangerous. Had she forgotten a message?
"I'd like to show you the batteries. Come with me."